


Mansion of Mystery

by Familiae



Series: Crimes Against Decency [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bestiality, Blood and Gore, Cat Ears, Knotting, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shapeshifting, Supernatural Elements, Torture, Vore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-01-26 10:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 30,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21372721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae
Summary: Izaac keeps strange company.
Series: Crimes Against Decency [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538989
Kudos: 2





	1. Wapiti, Wapita

It wasn’t every day one could say they sat next to a guy with an elk head.

And, no, I’m not kidding you—this was no carefully crafted mask with unusual realism, no skin of an animal thrown over a head, no special effects or no such nonsense. This was an actual guy with an actual elk head—body perfectly human, with muscular chest and arms, and wide shoulders. When it reached the neck however, there was long brown-rust fur, a long neck, and an elongated head with calm black eyes and an impressive set of antlers curling from the top of the elk’s skull. As I watched, the ears twitched, it blinked, and then snorted.

Yup, this was real. This was a thing that was actually happening.

And the only thing I could think of is: should I moo or say hi?

Thankfully, Mr. Elk-head saved me from my dilemma my speaking (and yes, he actually spoke).

“Markus Moreno, I presume?”

To my surprise, his voice was a deep low rumble, and uncharacteristically bugle-y.

“Ah, yes,” and because I left my filter back in my room, I felt compelled to add, “nice rack.”

If elks could raise their eyebrows, this one would be doing it now.

“I see they were right to warn me about you,” elk-head said, tilting his head to the side.

“Who?”

But, he simply waved a hand, snorting repeatedly. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing. “You’ll see. For now, I must carry on with my duties. It was nice to meet you.”

And with that, he departed, walking down the hallway, shaking his head. I thought I heard him say something like “Rack? Who’d really think of that,” and some of his snorted laughter.

I for one, was perpetually confused.


	2. Lost and Found

The sunlight filtered through the trees rendering the floor a checkered green-and-yellow pattern. It hadn’t rained in a few days, thus the earth was dry and firm, the ground littered with fallen dry leaves, roasted by the sun, and crooked branches that no longer could support the weight of the canopies. Overall, it was a natural, almost welcoming scene—the trees reaching eager branches to drink in the light, a soft breeze fluttering across the leaves, and the sound of animals and critters shuffling among the bushes. The birds were oddly hushed however, and they did not flutter among the branches but sat neatly in their nests, watching passerby with wary eyes, barely daring to move from their homes. Despite it all, however... it could have been pleasant.

Except I hated every minute of it.

The branches tugged at the legs of my jeans, forcing me to yank at my limbs until the fabric either ripped or the branch splintered and broke. I had little sticky seeds stuck all the way to my hips, my shirt had ripped earlier when I nearly tripped against a tree, my fingers and arms were sticky with tree sap and blood from when I had gotten tangled on their wicked leaves, my feet were starting to hurt. The sun was hurting my eyes too. This forest seemed especially designed to bring me pain. It had looked lovely from afar, but it seems I had just proven how different the situation was in perspective.

I _really_ didn’t want to whine, but after two hours of going in circles through these godforsaken woods, I was ready to rest. Not that I would get my wish any time soon.

I sighed.

It was all just that—wishful thinking.

I gingerly stepped over the twisting roots of a tree, picking my way carefully among them, wary of losing my footing and falling once more, and turned towards a small path. It was nothing fancy—just a path born out of too many trampling footsteps. Stray leaves were scattered here and there, but for the most part it was insignificant—a skinny trail of flat earth that could easily be overlooked if one were not careful. I stopped by the edge of it to catch my breath, before I turned to my right, where the path started ascending and twisting over the side of a small hill.

The path steadily rose until I reached a wide-spaced clearing, where it opened up to allow the merciless sun to beat down on my brow. Half-blind, I stumbled into the clearing, craning my head to squint at the line of trees. Unsurprisingly, there was no one awaiting me in the dark corners of the forest.

Satisfied that I was not in any immediate danger, I stumbled the rest of the way to the far-away tree. Insignificant, really—rough bark, branches, leaves, roots, just like the rest of the trees, except this one in particular contained the holy elixir of life. From its low thick branches hung two travel packs—hardy bags made of thick fabric that seemed to be able to withstand the weight of bricks. Both of the bags were a dull brown color—one only slightly lighter in tone than the other. Empowered and hopeful, I hurried my footsteps until I stood before the lighter brown bag.

Wary now, I looked wildly around myself, making sure no one was watching, before my fingers slid against the fabric of the bag, undoing the zipper as quickly as possible and sneaking a hand inside to bring out the beautiful, the gorgeous, and the most welcoming sight of my cold sparkling soda bottle, filled to the brim with its all-powerful essence.

Without further ado, I ripped the seal, screwed the cap open, and brought the mouth of the bottle to my lips—savoring the sweet nectar of tingling, refreshing, bananas.

“You were supposed to save that up for later.”

Here comes the party pooper.

I sighed.

“No sign of them?”

I shook my head, forcing my fingers to work and screw the bottle close, licking my lips to savor the last drop of it. Slowly, I turned, to face the intruder. Damien stood serious and tall as always—though I noticed now that there were the thin lines of worry on his lips and around his eyes.

“How long now?” I asked, stalling. I did not really want to think of the implications this would have.

“An hour,” he grimaced, “Izaac isn’t going to be pleased.”

And because I had nothing better to say, I just awkwardly coughed up a meek: “We’ll find them.”

Damien shook his head, but stayed silent, and I was left awkwardly holding my bottle of holy soda while he kicked around a stone and thought deeply. I sighed. Since when had I turned into Mr. Positive?

Since Damien seemed to be too busy moping to notice, I unscrewed the bottle and took another hasty gulp. _Mmm. _Definitely worth being Mr. Positive for.

“He’ll be OK. I’m pretty sure he’s with Ashlin,” Damien spoke up abruptly, nearly making me drop my bottle.

I grunted, a noncommittal sound of general agreement, but, honestly, I was skeptical. Damien sounded so sure that the kid was safe in Ashlin’s protection, but I had serious deep-rooted doubts on this. For one, Ashlin wasn’t known for being warm and cuddly with children. Two, that one had a history of being unreliable. I simply could not fathom how he could suddenly become dependable now.

“If you _do_ find Ashlin—”

“I’ll scream like in a bad horror movie and you’ll come—I know.”

“We don’t know for how long we’ll be searching so _do_ conserve your energy. You’re on your last bottle now.”

I nodded grimly, grimacing at the thought of ending all my drinks. Summer was too hot; the heat seemed to cling to my clothes and make them stick to my skin, and the sting of the branches did not better my mood. I had taken the habit of picking the path and going to our supplies whenever my throat started feeling that slight familiar ache, and, in turn, it did not help for making me very productive. The liquid was heavy in my gut, and it made my movements sluggish and inept, but it was almost like a compulsive need to come back and take a rest. It would have been different if we could just stick to the little paths, but deeper into the forest the paths turned into a faraway memory, and the branches grabbed cruelly at your arms to tear at the flesh. 

The first dive into its depths had already proved to me the unrelenting fact that I was not the biggest fan of hiking. Damien had gauged that we could very well take days to cover the whole forest; though he also doubted that it’d be necessary. If Apep truly was with Ashlin, then he’d ask, in that roundabout playful way of his, for Ashlin to take him back home. Izaac was coming home tomorrow and staying for an unknown period of time, and that was not something the child would willingly miss. Of course, more importantly was the fact that Izaac would be calling up in about an hour to check up on things, and it wouldn’t be pleasant if Damien was forced to admit that the kid was missing.

This was all assuming that Ashlin behaved and watched over Apep, and that Apep was still alive and not scattered into little pieces over the soil.

This was precisely why I—or rather, we—were here right now, in this godforsaken forest. Izaac did not favor to see or think of the grinning little Apep as topsoil and excellent compost, so, in turn, Damien did not like thinking of Apep as food for plants.

_Ah_, my sixth bottled was finished now.

“This time we should move more south by southeast,” Damien grunted, forcing me to look up—he held a kind of map in his fingers, which came as a shock to me as I had no idea there were _maps_ of this damn place. He frowned at it a bit more, traced a presumable route with his index finger, then nodded to himself, and grunted again. “Keep close this time, and if you find Ashlin—”

“Scream—I know.”

I don’t know what type of map Damien was looking at, but it was a terrible, horrible one.

It wasn’t because the path was more difficult, in all honesty it wasn’t all that horrifying until you tripped and tangled yourself in one and found it digging all over your skin trying to rape your pores.

Pines.

With pine needles.

An army of pines armed with pine needles, charged and ready to fire.

Throwing my arms up to protect my face proved useless. All my attempts to protect myself only helped to have the needles slash at my forearms and, at times, even make shallow cuts across my skin. I was in a losing battle from the start, and while still trying to keep the pine needles for scooping out my eyeballs, I also had to keep careful watch of my footing. Most of the forest floor was completely obscured by leaves, shrubbery, and thin wispy grass, so that I did not know where a twisting root lay hidden, until my foot had stumbled upon it.

And my foot had this unique and rare skill: that of finding every possible nook and cranny a foot could get stuck on or an ankle twisted in and find any means possible to lodge itself deeply into it.

Well, OK, so maybe I was whining and exaggerating. But really; the bones and muscles of my legs ached from the many times I had tripped, the heat made a spot of sweat stick to my shoulder blades, and my arms stung. I was in a whiney mood.

Finally, the pines started to clear up, and I eagerly hurried my pace, taking advantage of the semi-open ground and a slim excuse to turn back and report to Damien of how I’d failed. I crossed the small clearing, being wary to avoid brushing against the pines and found myself suddenly squealing to a halt.

The low murmur of voices.

It was distant, but it was there—what was being said or even the tone of them was impossible to understand, but I knew there were voices. I stood still in place, trying to zero in on where exactly it could be found. I turned slowly in place, eyes half closed, probably looking like the world’s biggest moron, but in the middle of the forest, well, why the hell would I care?

After I thought I had a good idea of where the general hubbub of the noises was coming from, I started walking in that direction. This time the going was slow, because I was trying to keep my steps as quiet as possible. If it _did_ turn out to be Ashlin, I quite liked my ass as it was, I did not care to see it mangled and shredded.

Eventually the murmur of voices stopped, and I was left walking in circles, trying to pinpoint where the hell I could find them again. Once it rose again, I turned around and walked off, trying to follow as quickly as I could and dared, trying to make the least amount of sound as possible. I’m afraid to admit that I failed miserably—my footsteps probably sounded akin to an elephant marching through the Amazon. Again, let us clarify, that I wasn’t used to hiking, let alone, be a professional tracker.

Another clearing soon came up, and I hurried my footsteps, trying to keep my breath slow and steady. My heart gave a nervous fluttering squeeze in my chest before my heartbeat started to accelerate. A hand clutched at my shirt and gave it a small tug, pulling it away from my neck. Suddenly my throat felt very dry and there was a pinch in my bladder which gave me a good idea of what it wanted to do.

There was no helping it—the only way I’d know for sure this was Ashlin and not a talking bear was to see for myself, and screaming would not help me. If I did, Ashlin would notice me faster than Damien could move, but if I could somehow sneak forward, confirm what I was seeing with my own eyes then double back, I could maybe get out of this with only the trees as my aggressors.

So I did just that, creeping carefully along, bent at the waist and trying to keep the pine needles from my eyes. Before me, the ground grew more treacherous, but the trees more spaced. I crouched by the trunk of a tree that was most definitely not a pine, and tried peering into the depths of the clearing.

It was not wide, at least not from my perspective, if not, narrow. It stretched for a good few yards with bright green grass and a few rocks dotting the ground. In the middle of it, awkwardly placed and standing out against the sheer wall of trees, stood a cypress—its skinny trunk stretching taller than most of the tress surrounding it. It cast a large shade over the clearing, making it seem almost welcoming.

Away from the shade of the tree, a person seemed to be resting. I squinted at the figure, trying to make out why anyone in their right mind would be laying in the sun when there was such a welcoming shade just a foot away when I noticed it.

The pale flesh was streaked and spider-webbed with crimson rivers of blood. The grass glittered with it, waving little drops of blood in the wind. Next to the lump of unidentifiable shape, something shifted. This one was smaller. I saw a hand stretching forward—shaking in midair. Something groaned, and the small figure dragged itself forward. It was unmistakably a child—dark skinned with dark hair.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was suddenly stumbling from my hiding place, giving a mad rush after the child. My mind spat senseless words of reproach. I knew Ashlin was unreliable, and if Apep turned out to be hurt there’d be hell to pay. I just couldn’t see how Izaac wouldn’t shoot Ashlin in his smug face.

The first lump I had seen was unmistakably a female. I could see a round breast with a perky pink nipple, and a thin delicate arm draped over her frame. Or rather, what was left of it. The legs were mostly untouched, but the abdomen had been torn open, and the organs scooped out to lay at a mess on her side. The meat around her ribs had been torn away with what looked like teeth—bite marks dotted her side and waist. Her other arm, as well as the respective shoulder, neck, and head, were missing. Instead a bloody red mess of torn tissue was allowed to bleed freely over the bloodstained ground.

To her side was a child, but I immediately felt a short-lived relief to recognize that it was not Apep. Maybe I felt a little sick because of it.

The child turned out to have parts of it missing as well. Though, the skin of the face and back was relatively unharmed, an arm had been ripped off at the shoulder, taking the bone clean off with it. Blood gushed from the opening like a fountain, and the child’s body shook and tremble with death’s throes. His hips abruptly ended, and a segment of spine could be seen, dragging on the ground with the guts pooling after it. Both legs were missing, and from the looks of it, the force behind yanking at them had been so much that the hip was dislocated, exposing bone, fat, and a trail of feces.

The smell was overpowering. Piss, shit, sweat, blood, and death mingling in the air so I started hacking and coughing before I could even make it to the child’s side. Not that I would have been able to do anything except maybe puke, which I was doing just fine by myself just standing three yards from them.

I felt my knees shake and buckle under me, and my legs stumble beneath me. Vile rose to my throat, and the rest of my strength left me as I dropped to the floor to vomit a yellowish liquid that could only be the last of my banana soda. It tasted nothing like banana soda, however, and it gushed out my nose which didn’t help. I choked and spat the rest of the vomit from my lips, breath wheezing. My throat, nose, and eyes burned, and I felt tears prickling.

Somehow, dizzy and weak as I was, I dragged myself away from the gruesome sight and towards the cypress tree. That’s when I spotted two more figures, resting in the shade, and felt my stomach give a heave.

They were naked, the smaller one draped over the larger. It took me several heartbeats to realize the larger one was Ashlin. He was smiling, running his fingers through jet black hair. Dried blood covered his torso and limbs, but he seemed to be unaware of it. The smaller figure chuckled, stretching himself forward to press a kiss on Ashlin’s lips.

And it was unmistakably Apep. His hair was tousled, but his eyes were bright, and his mouth and hands were covered in blood. He smiled at Ashlin, leaning into his chest, completely unaware of my presence.

From this angle, I could see the white gunk trailing from between his legs. An image started to form in my mind, but it struggled to connect the two bodies to what I was seeing before me—

My vision started growing dark.

I screamed.


	3. Cuddlebug

He sat on Izaac’s lap, looking listless. When I dropped to my knees to take a peek at the child’s face, he leaped back with a yelp. Immediately, Izaac’s arms went around him, hugging him to his chest. The child closed his eyes, and Izaac turned to glare at me.

Izaac was by his desk, bent over working as the child rested on his lap. I had been sitting in my usual chair, reading a book, when I finally decided to see what was wrong with the usually-hyper child.

His face was puffy and red, his eyes half-closed. He almost looked pained, pursing his lips and trying not to squirm.

“Fever?” I asked Izaac.

It wasn’t Izaac that answered—the child nodded, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands.

“Make it go away,” he told me, his eyes wide and pleading, leaning against Izaac with a sigh. Izaac sighed even deeper, smoothing back the child’s hair from his face.

“No medicine?” I asked.

“His system isn’t taking them very well,” there was concern on Izaac’s voice, and he cast a worried glance towards the child. “I’ve tried what I know but...”

At that, the child smiled, weakly, but he did. “You’re smart, daddy,” he hummed, “you’ll fix me.”

Izaac responded with a smile, and Apep inclined his head towards me to wink.

\--------------------------

It was difficult to admit, maybe I was even growing adapted to it, but despite it all, despite all I knew about Apep now and even seen what he could do with my own eyes, I still had to admit he could be a pretty cute kid when he wanted to.

Not just physically, although he had plenty of that, but I meant personality-wise too. He may have a funny way of going about it most times, but when he tried hard, he struck gold. The fact that he was currently wrapped in my arms and unable to move didn’t hurt either.

“Do you like it?” he asked, peering up at me with a mischievous grin.

“Yes,” I answered honestly, running my hand through his hair and feeling him squirm in bliss.

“Good,” he hummed, “I want you to be happy.”

I couldn’t exactly say it was the happiest day of my life—far from it—but I was immensely pleased. So I hugged him to my chest and pressed my lips against the top of his head, eyes half-closing as the aroma of bananas wafted close by.


	4. Ash

The bell jingled softly across the darkened hallways. The lights flickered, if only briefly. I could not shake off the feeling of being watched.

I tried to convince myself I was logical however; no one would have any reason to follow me. I was safe and sound, and only maybe fifty steps from my room. It wasn’t far now. It was simply my mind, conjuring up ghosts and spooks to haunt my every step.

So, I ignored it. My own mind would not scare me; ghosts or spooks would not catch me. I continued walking, maybe hurrying my stride a little bit—but only a little. I assured myself it was because I was tired; once I got some sleep I’d laugh about this. A grown-up, jumping at every little sound. 

Sure, the mansion was still largely unfamiliar, but that did not mean it was haunted or some such nonsense. Not to mention, Damien had assured me there was not much else sleeping near this wing. My room was also closer to his own which meant, if I had any trouble, he’d only be a few minutes’ walk away from me. If I ran, only seconds.

Not that there would be a need to run. I was alone here, blissfully undisturbed by anyone. I’d like to say anything as well, but sometimes, the occasional moth, or fly, or butterfly would find itself into my room and I’d need to shoo it away.

But besides that, nothing. It was as peaceful as peaceful could be.

Why, then, did I feel like I was being watched?

I turned to look over my shoulder, only to see the empty hallway behind me.

See, Markus, you’re being silly. There’s absolutely nothing here. It must be that movie you saw the other night working its way into your skull, buzzing like an angry bee.

I turned to look back to my room—

A hand wrapped around my mouth, an arm around my waist. I was lifted from the ground, and my startled scream went unheard—

The bell on my neck jingled softly.

“Looks like you’re it, lost little kitten.”


	5. Teeth and Skin

_Tick. Tock._

It was the waiting—the waiting always got to me. Watching as time slipped through my fingers and everything went on, unchanged. I wouldn’t have minded if there was something to do—something to think about, something to dwell upon, but it was always the same. Dark dreary walls stared back at me, unchanging. I was waiting, waiting for time to finally decide to bless me with a difference. Sometimes I thought it wasn’t as much the time that tore away at my mind, but rather how it would go unchanging for so long, waiting for something—_anything_—to happen. Never was there a sign that something would change—only hope. 

Hopeless, useless, hope.

There was a sudden ticking—metal on metal. The murmur of a voice.

I closed my eyes.

“Ready for the next round, kitten?” the words were a purr at my ear.

\--------------------------

The chains rattled as my head fell forward—my muscles burned with the effort to keep myself aloft, but they would hold no more. With trembling limbs, I finally exhaled, and with that all the strength left me. I breathed hard, feeling the metal chafe against my wrists, until the skin was red and raw. I was beyond caring—my need to breathe was more urgent than my need for comfort.

I felt my own warm blood trickle along the muscles of my arm, even more spider-webbed from a cut on my lip, and various lacerations along my legs and stomach. I wanted to lift my head, but it only bobbed uselessly to the side. I gasped, tried to gulp in a breath and shuddered.

“Does it hurt?” his voice was curious, but oddly gentle. This was not the voice I was expecting.

I struggled to lift my head, feeling my muscles ache and tremble with the effort. Sweat trickled from my forehead and limbs—my hair stuck to my face. I wondered if it was sweat or blood.

A pair of glittering green eyes stared back at mine—so suddenly close that we could have kissed.

What was Apep doing here?

I tried to speak but my throat and mouth felt dry, and my throat felt torn and ragged from screaming earlier. When I opened my mouth, no sound came out but a choked squeak. My muscles creaked and protest, and my let my head fall. 

He bent down then, those eyes were curious as they watched me. I knew I shouldn’t have expected otherwise, but it still hurt. Hadn’t I tended to him so earnestly as a child?

My lips moved, and I tried to speak, but my voice was too hoarse. My words were lost.

He continued to watch me—it was amazing how fast time passed. He was already a teenager, and growing up into quite the handsome young man too. The fat had receded from his face almost completely—revealing a shapely jaw and an attractive face. Izaac must be proud of that—at least he had good taste.

He lifted a hand, cradling my cheek, his thumb stroking the skin—his hand felt oddly warm and sweat from his palm stuck to my skin. He said something then, but I couldn’t quite catch it. Somehow, I didn’t care—the single act of tenderness was enough to soothe me. It would be alright, I told myself. He’s here, he’ll help.

Smiling, he pressed his lips to mine. His touch was light and fleeting, and his lips felt soft. He licked me, gently setting his teeth against my lower lip. I tried speaking, but he pushed himself roughly towards me, jostling my arms and causing a gasp to slip pasts my lips. He was gentle, and his mouth tasted of something sharp and metallic.

When he pulled away, I noticed there was blood around his mouth—it only took me a moment to realize that it was from my own lips. Apep didn’t seem to care—he licked his lips, and smiled at me. He pulled his hand away from my cheek and licked his fingers—the whole hand was covered in crimson blood. That couldn’t be mine...

The liquid went all the way to his elbows, and his shirt was stained with it too. I felt my eyes widen, my lips moved but no words came out.

He lifted that same hand and it landed just bellow my collarbone. I hissed, and tried to recoil, but there was nowhere I could move. The chains rattled, my wrists screamed with the effort to keep my whole body aloft.

“A-Apep,” finally my voice came, but I might as well not spoken at all.

He dug a nail against the cut with unusual fastidiousness, parting the skin until blood started to flow more freely over his fingers. I gasped, and tried to uselessly pull away once more.

Ignoring me, he brought his lips to the enlarged wound, licking at the blood and skin. I flinched, feeling my muscles tense and making the blood flow more freely. He did not pause, instead I felt something sharp prick against my skin, and realized it was his teeth. He was worrying away against the skin, and I felt sick as he drew back—a thin flap of skin coming away by the force of his teeth.

He tore the piece and snapped his teeth around it until it disappeared into his mouth. As he chewed, he peered at my face, smiling that sweet smile of his.

When he swallowed, he spoke up, “Don’t worry, Markus,” he hummed, licking his lips, “I’ll get you out of here, Ashlin's not back yet."

He stepped back, and his body leaned to the side. It was then that I realized he held a hatchet in his other hand—blood stained the blade and dripped to a small puddle on the floor.

I wanted to scream, but could not find my voice. I protested against the chains, feeling the skin break against the manacles and blood to flow from my injured wrists

Why? Why me? Why this? Why—


	6. Eyes

My legs cramped with the weight of the child. It was not so much that he was incredibly heavy, more that he pinned me in the same position, leaning against me, his head resting on my chest, and refusing to move. The cold had made him drowsy, and he drifted between asleep and half-asleep throughout the whole meeting.

I sat behind Izaac’s desk, on his usual chair, partly due because he had made my beanbag disappear for reasons yet unknown, partly because of the child.

Whoever these guests of Izaac were, they were fairly important. Not enough to ignore his makeshift family—proof enough that I was here with Apep, and Damien stood stiffly by the door, December by his side, grinning like a cat. So, no, Izaac wasn’t ignoring us, but they _were_ important enough for him to choose to attend them within his home. That was almost unheard of.

Not that I could pay much attention to them. The child snored softly, but he snored, and when he woke, he’d taken the habit of pulling at my lips or hair to get my attention. It was simply better to keep a look out on him. Not to mention, his mood today was beyond foul. So much so that Izaac handed him over to me. I’d never seen him give up the child before—he had a patience for this kid that stretched beyond the limits of reality.

Whatever this guest was, they were bad enough to have everyone on edge. It seemed I was the only one left out not knowing.

It was as I pondered this, that Apep’s eyelids fluttered open. His eyes fixed on me with a frown.

“Don’t,” he coughed.

I arched a brow, trying to take the chance to shift him slightly on my lap.

“Don’t look into his eyes,” Apep’s voice was barely above a whisper, but I saw Damien shift. His eyes briefly flicked towards us before returning to the guest’s.

In the most discreet way possible, I tried examining the guest’s through my peripheral vision. Apep scowled at me then, and I tried easing his fears, but his disapproval was clear.

December was grinning, but her eyes were unfocused—looking at the lady’s neck instead of her face. I could not detect anything off about Izaac’s behavior, but now that I knew what to look for, I had the distinct impression he was looking at the woman’s eyebrows instead of her eyes. Damien, bodyguard as he was, his eyes wandered and scanned the room—I had to wonder why he didn’t have his usual sunglasses.

“Look _down,_” Apep hissed, so suddenly that I froze in place. With an annoyed _tsk_ his little fingers tangled around my hair and yanked my head downwards with such ferocity my neck gave little threatening _cracks_ as the air bubbles popped.

I met the child’s eyes head on, and something about them spoke of a warning.

“I’ll claw out your eyes if I have to,” he hissed again, wrapping his arms around my neck to lay his head on my shoulder.

I was almost touched he cared.


	7. Musk

He was much larger than I anticipated; his grip firm and strong. The fact that his brain seemed to be limited to a deer’s skull did not seem to hinder him in the slightest. When he moved, he was sure of his movements in the way that betrayed entirely too much experience. I suppose it would have been silly of me to think Izaac’s captives were solely for Izaac and his few favorites; after all, the entirety of the inhabitants of the house _were_ his favorites. They were here because they had proved themselves to be both highly useful and desirable company.

So our dear deer-headed friends would be in that group too. Not that I was in any room to ask him.

He had me pinned against the wall, his round black eyes fixed on me. It wasn’t exactly easy to read his moods—his features were foreign to me, and his every moved seemed to be dictated at this very moment by the expanse of his lust.

And I must say, it wasn’t exactly _small_.

He pressed his nose against my shoulder, inhaling deeply. His own smell was odd—musky, but not unpleasantly so. I had heard somewhere that male elks rolled around in their own piss, and this didn’t remind me of toilets in the slightest at the very least (to my relief). A bit like a wet animal, but it mostly smelled of soap,

When he turned me, his hands were eager, and he struggled not to be too brusque. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky, whispering compliments I recalled hearing a dozen times before his.

The process was the same; his hands roamed by body as he pushed himself against me, hips giving little jerks against my ass, which oddly enough, made me purr—a bone I’d have to pick with Apep later. His antlers rubbed against my skull, scratching my ears and flattening them against my hair, and his snorts were odd to say the least. I attempted to accommodate myself as best I could, but although most of his anatomy was familiar, the head proved to be disorienting. At least there would be no kissing.

I set my arms flat against the wall, trying to angle myself so I wouldn’t be squished under his girth. He grasped my hips, fingers skimming against my ass and thighs. For some reason, I found myself wondering what would happen in one of these things procreated a child with a human. Elk head or human head with antlers? Maybe instead they had hooves? Centaur? Elktaur?

He pushed himself inside and it was sudden enough for a surprised cat-like hiss to slide past my lips, ears pinned back. He caught it, because he suddenly paused, waiting for my muscles to unwind and relax against him. Once I did, his hands grasped my waist and he thrust forward.

My mouth and cheek splayed against the wall more times than I could count, his movements rough and deep, making my hips creak under him, and my whole body tried to resist from smacking against the wall. The slapping sound of his hips against my ass reached my ears in tandem with the clear sounds of the bell at my throat, but mostly I was aware of how much the hurried movements rocked me forward.

The jingling and humping chorus continued, picking up more speed, melding until one noise was undistinguishable from the next, the animal-like groans slipping from his throat. He grunted, and I heard a sound like sounded like a startled yowl slip from my lips. I wasn’t sure what drew it forth, but he seemed to draw his own interpretations from it. He tried slamming harder into me, his breath deep and hard at my ear, making me shudder. 

When he pulled out, his fluids dribbling down my thighs, I was practically flat against the wall. I pushed myself off it, my back pressing against his chest, and to my surprise, he wrapped his arms around me.

“I see they were right to warn me about you,” he hummed, this time, he sounded amused.


	8. Vicious Mutts

His fingers grasped the empty air as he flung himself forward, the momentum keeping him on his feet by sheer force of will.

Even so, he twirled, attempting to turn, setting his foot down hard on the ground, only to skid on the slick wet surface of the tiles. He yelped as his sneaker slid over the surface of the floor, throwing his arms over his head to protect his skull. The fall resounded with a sharp _crack_ as his shoulder hit the ground, and just liked that, the air left his lungs. The impact left him breathless.

Little black dots swam before his eyes as he struggled for air. Mouth gaping like a fish, he shifted on the floor, pushing his feet against the wet tiles, hand grasping for his shoulder. It did not feel broken, but even so, it ached and hurt more than he could vocalize.

The mutt stopped just a few feet away from him—fur bristling, ears flat against its skull, lips pulled back to reveal yellowed fangs, strings of saliva dripping from its jaws and pooling by its paws.

The dog—for that was what it most closely resembled—was a dull grey color, with faint stripes of darker fur criss-crossing its legs and mane. It had a wolfish look to it, but the skull was flatter, almost forming a straight line where cranium and jaws connected when looked from the side, and its muzzle was impossibly long. Its tail was short and matted—possibly having been cut off, its fur long and straight, puffing out from its body in an almost comical way. It was entirely too large to be a normal dog, however—it must have been about the size of a calf.

Markus tried to push himself back. Making his movements slow and deliberate, he pushed himself to lie with his chest flat against the floor. He craned his head to look for the dog, and the beast snarled. With its fur bristling, it took a step forward. Markus pushed himself back, crawling on hands and feet, but keeping his eyes fixed on the dog.

The mutt paced around Markus, snarling, watching him. Its nostrils flared as it drank in Markus’ scent. When Markus moved once more, it took another step forward.

His sneakers brushed against the back wall and Markus cursed silently. The dog continued its rumbling growl, tail moving behind it, almost in a wag.

It took a step forward, and Markus pushed back until his ass brushed against a wall. The dog snarled, and without a thought, Markus sat, up, pressing his back against the wall, gritting his teeth, and throwing his arms forward to protect himself. Snarling, the dog rushed for him. Its paws skidded against the slick ground, but that did not stop its pursuit. Markus flinched, the dog crashed into him.

Grunting, Markus threw his arms out, trying to push the huge beast away from him. The mutt snarled again, teeth snapping for Markus’ face and missing by mere inches.

Heart racing, Markus, pushed at the dog, trying to shift under it to deliver a kick to its belly. Jaws snapping, the dog launched itself forward, the rumble of its growls resounding throughout Markus’ bones.

It threw itself jerked forward again, and this time, Markus’ arms failed him. They fell against the weight of the beast, and left him exposed to its cruel fangs. Grunting, Markus screwed his eyes shut, turning his face away from the slavering jaws.

Then he felt something warm and wet against his cheek. A little pressure followed by more warmth wet across his jaw line. When he dared open his eyes it was to see the dog licking him. Its eyes were fixed on his own as it scored lick after lick along the side of Markus’ face. Markus was so startled; he did not even try to push away from the beast’s odd behavior.

“I told you not to move,” a deep rich voice said from somewhere near his head. When Markus craned his head to look, it was only to catch a glimpse of Izaac’s shoes and pants.

Mute, Markus turned to look at the beast again, feeling incredibly slow and dull-witted as it coated his face and throat with its saliva.

“W-what?” he was lost.

“It’s his birthday,” Izaac explained, “he wanted time with you.”

Still confused, Markus turned slightly to look down at the beast. As if eager for his eyes on it, it growled, shifting around on its paws and pulling itself forward to place sloppy licks over the top of Markus’ head, smoothing back his hair with thick drool.

That was when he noticed something shiny and pink between the dog’s legs, and that was when he understood the implication behind Izaac’s words.

“I’ll let you take care of it,” Izaac said. With those words, he turned, the sound of his footsteps echoing in Markus’ ears. He had left Markus.


	9. Teeth and Tongue

The trunk tightened around me, making it hard to breathe. I tried to fight it—to allow my chest to expand against its vice-like grip, but the grip only tightened further. More trashing only encourages a hiss to slip past its throat. This time, when I turned my head, watching black points swirl over my line of sight, I saw its face.

The bright green eyes seemed to regard me curiously. It tilted me this way and that, and I felt the black tongue tickle my face.

Its jaws parted, and I was gazing into the wet cavern of its mouth. Panic made me stupid, and I trashed uselessly against its grip again. It paid me no mind. Carefully, slowly, as if I was some great prize, it led me into its open mouth, and only released me when I was safely inside. The teeth closed around me—as long as my forearm and sharp enough to make me squirm away.

I felt my surroundings tilt, and I was suddenly sliding. I tried to grip along its mouth, but my fingers slipped uselessly. The throat loomed closer, and I closed my eyes.

Suddenly, I was flying through the air. I landed heavily on my side. The floor knocked the air from my lungs, and my head smacked hard against the floor. I groaned and _whoosh_, there went the rest of my air.

As if from afar, I heard a voice grumble, “I leave you two alone for ten minutes, and this is what happens.”

A hiss in response, and more words. These, I could not quite catch. There was the sound of something sliding away, still hissing as it went.

Then there were warm arms around me, and I automatically leaned into them, trembling and wheezing.

“It’s alright. Don’t worry—it’s alright.”

I closed my eyes.


	10. Moods

My beanbag was being soiled.

I wasn’t sure what made Izaac change his mind—usually he’d make me go to him. With a glance he’d demand I’d undress, and without so much as a simple courtesy, he’d slam me against the desk and fuck me.

But today, today he had come to me. I hadn’t even been paying attention—I was minding my business, button-smashing to the rhythm of catching Pokémon, because _yeah_, that worked, and then I suddenly felt my legs being tugged apart. What followed was my mute self being undressed by Izaac then having him stick his cock in me. All the while, I debated if I should save my progress and wait for Izaac to be done to continue playing or simply close the lid and wait it out. Izaac would not appreciate it if I continued playing.

Then my next thought went along the lines of: _there’s going to be goddamn cumstains on my goddamn beanbag._

Then I whined.

Then, somehow, I had what tasted like sweaty sock shoved in my mouth.

I tried whining through the sock, but it did not work very well.

Izaac was quick and rough—whatever mood had stricken him was over rather quickly. He came inside, drew out, used my shirt to wipe his dick, then stood up, fixed his pants, and went over to walk to the desk like nothing happened.

I noticed he was not wearing shoes. He was also wearing only one sock. I just had to wonder _why_.

“Leave,” Izaac said without a single glance in my direction.

Someone was in a mood...


	11. Whining

“Markus,” the squeaky voice of a child.

My eyes remained painfully shut. Thinking. Considering. Maybe it was like predators—if I remained still I would not be seen. If I thought of being someplace else I would make it into this other place.

Whatever deity is hearing this, please drop me face first into a huge line of crepes of all flavors.

“Markus!”

Right. Shit. I forgot he was a deity. OK, OK, hold on—let me correct my last statement.

Whatever deity except Apep that is hearing this, please drop me face first into the arms of some very cuddly young man that cooks crepes for me.

Why was the image of Mouse popping up in my head?

“Markus!”

I should’ve lied about my name to him; should have said my name was Izaac. Or Damien. Or Ashlin. Or maybe Spencer. He could bug Spencer all he wanted—

Instead, because I was an awful human being, I turned slightly in bed and groggily said, “What?”

I could practically hear the grin in his voice: “Get up its 3 AM, I need to summon the whale again.”

Why dear crepe deities, why?


	12. Laughter

Musical laughter floated up from just beyond the thin walls, leading towards the room. The sound of it was so unexpected, I paused mid-step, nerves on edge.

The laughter continued, but this time I dragged out a few distinct words between the peals of laughter: “No. Apep. Stop!”

And my whole world was torn asunder and crushed to nothing, because I just realized who the laughter belonged to.

It sounded almost surreal—it was the kind of laugh that had you smiling like an idiot along with it. Even more surreal was the fact that it was Izaac’s.

Izaac. Laughing. Izaac laughing and it wasn’t even remotely sarcastic or mocking. This was a laughter born out of pure joy.

Half in awe, half in fear, I turned my head slightly to be able to peer into the room through the half-open door.

They were both on Izaac’s bed, and both rather nude. Apep appeared to be tickling Izaac—his fingers roaming Izaac’s side. He was smiling broadly as Izaac laughed.

I felt my eyes widen. Izaac was ticklish.

A mob boss, feared by all, something wrought out of nightmares. I knew he wasn’t exactly Lucifer come to the flesh as some liked to think, but he was far from _nice_. He was into all sorts of nasty things—drugs, guns, human trafficking, head of the stealing-candy-from-children committee. He was both feared and respected.

And he was _ticklish._

Of all the things I had thought Izaac was, _ticklish_ was not one of them.

This had to be some kind of weird dream.

But the laughter continued, and Apep smiled and laughed along with him. Soon, the burst of mirth soon faded into something calmer.

Gathering my skittering thoughts, I turned away from the door and hurried past. That was information to be filed away, never to be spoken out loud. Somehow, I did not think Izaac would be laughing if I tried to bring my concern up to him. Also, it felt kind of wrong—that had been some kind of weird satanic intimate moment between Izaac and his husband. You didn’t want to mess with that.


	13. Snake Snarls

I had to say I had never been fucked by a guy that was half-snake, half-person-torso, but I guess there was a first time for everything. Not that Apep was giving me much of a choice—his thick tail was winding tight around my legs, and I could feel his dick pressing against my ass as the coils tightened around me.

“You’re so cute when you’re scared,” Apep hummed at my ear.

“Bite me,” I almost told him, but bit back my words soon enough. Apep would actually do it. Instead, I said the much awaited: “You’re tight.”

Apep chuckled and the coils loosened. His lips pressed against my cheek.

“I’ll go slow,” he said, drawing an object close—the scent reminded me of oils, thick and soothing

His thrusts were quick and savage. The force of it had me gritting my teeth and stiffening under his assault. It wasn’t so much that it hurt—although at some points, the speed and strength which he put behind a certain movement sent a flash of white hot pain up my spine—more so that the movements jolted my whole body forward until I was threatened to fall from the bed.

“A-Apep,” it was useless, of course, he had not even deigned to slow last time I had called out to him.

And he didn’t, not really. He did not react to the sound of his own name, but he did shift his position. With my ass in the air as it was, he could not lean against me and bite (I had, of course, done this on purpose) so with a grunt, he lifted my chest, forcing me to set my hand against the mattress, then proceeded to outright _snarl_ in my ear.

He was growing up into quite the charming young man.

“You’re hurting me,” I hissed at him. If there was one tiny blessing about Apep, is that he held some sort of twisted affection towards me. Unlike Izaac, he tended to be more apt to listen to my words.

And just like that, and with a frustrated growl, his movements slowed, gently rolling his hips against mine.

Of course, that meant one of the snakes decided it was a good idea to slink away from around Apep’s shoulders and towards mine.

I tried to summon happy thoughts.


	14. Nightly Visitors

When something sharp and prickly rubbed against my thigh I ignored it, shutting my eyes almost as soon as they opened. Turning to my side, I arranged myself to a more comfortable position, and that was when I heard a faint snuffling sound.  
I stopped moving suddenly, pricking my ears to see if I could catch the sound again. One never knew when Izaac’s child could be just around the corner plotting his mischief.

I felt something wet against my thigh. This time, I turned in bed, pushing myself away from whatever deadly creature was lurking in my bed. I blindly reached for something in the night stand to smack it with—an alarm clock or a bag of candy, anything.  
But before I could strike down on this beast, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I spotted something round with four legs staring up at me with black shiny eyes.

I couldn’t say the exact color in the darkness of the room, but I could see the little spines along its back, and the round shiny eyes.

It reminded me of the cover of a book I had seen Damien reading just two days ago. I hadn’t even read the title, and had already scoffed at the book. Some cheesy picture of a half-naked woman, a ripped man, and a little hedgehog in the corner just waving its nose around wondering what tomfoolery was this.  
That was what was standing on top of my bed—a tiny little hedgehog.

I stared blankly at it while its nose wagged around. It turned its little head to sniff at the bed covers, then lifted its eyes on me as if expecting something.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to say.

Cautiously, it approached my leg, snuffling and twitching as it went. Once it was within reach, it suddenly stopped, looking up at me, expectant again.

“The candy’s mine,” I told it—what exactly could I say?

Then it proceeded to violently convulse.

I had never before in my life seen such a drastic reaction to being declined a sweet, so I wasn’t sure what to do. I blinked stupidly as the hedgehog’s body shook, and its eyes rolled to the back of its head. Briefly I wondered if this was one of Apep’s pranks after all. Then the crack of little bones snapping like twigs echoed in my ears, and the shape of the hedgehog filled up like a balloon, the spines along its back undulating dangerously.

I wasn’t sure how long I laid there as the hedgehog grew ten times its size, stretching and moaning until a slim boy stood in its place, but I assure you, it was quite the revealing moment.

I should also point out this “boy” was quite happy to see me.

Very, very much so.

“Is that for the candy?” I pointed a finger at the spot between his legs.

“It’s for you,” he said matter-of-factly.

Well.

I wasn’t sure what color the boy’s hair or eyes were, but I could see his skin was a soft brown, his hair curly and sticking out on end. He was thin and short—I’d say a bit shorter than me, even.  
Before I could protest, he wrapped his arms around me, placing licks and kisses along my throat and collarbone. When I didn’t protest, he leaned closer, crushing himself to me, hands tugging at my shirt.

“How did you even get into my room?”

“I’m small,” he said—_no you’re not_, I wanted to answer as he ground against me.

I had to say, this was my first time getting humped by a hedgehog.

“Can I fuck you?”

This kid.

This one kid.

I wasn’t even sure what to say—he came out of nowhere as a hedgehog with a little erect peen to an older boy with his pubes barely in place. And all I could think was that somewhere, Damien was eagerly watching with his hands down his pants. I was sure he had set this up. It all felt so surreal too.

So, in the end, I consented, allowing his hands to roam, and his lips to press against my skin. When he raised my hips to slide down the elastic of the underwear, I wondered if hedgehogs could transmit STDs. I was sure Izaac would pick up the broken pieces of Damien’s mess—getting sick wasn’t my real concern. More so, the fact that it was two different species, kinda? Did hedgehog shifters or werehedgehogs count as people or hedgehogs or either?

He eagerly pressed himself against me, barely pausing to check with me before he was pushing deeper inside. I sure hoped werehedgehogs didn’t have spines on their dicks else this was going to turn messy fast.

With a little grunt, he rolled his hips, pushing himself deeper inside. With another roll, he shifted into an easy rolling pace that made little moans slip past his lips. The pace was enough to build a nice relaxing tempo that nearly lured me to sleep. It was almost like a rocking chair except with a dick up your ass.

Then I felt his thrusts jar me, hurrying in pace as he neared his climax. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I tried looking at the ceiling pondering what my life had come too.

With a broken moan he poured his load inside—not even the courtesy of asking. With shaky breaths, he placed more kisses along my abdomen and stomach before he pulled out, grinning.

“You’re cute,” hedgehog boy told me, stepping away from bed, not even caring to wipe the traces of cum from his limp dick.

“I know,” I told his back, frowning.

What the fresh hell had just happened anyway?

And it was with that thought, as I wrapped my bedsheets around myself that I drifted to sleep. Maybe it was all some weird dream born of the inspiration of Damien’s book.


	15. Miniatures

It was about the height of a small horse—its coat long, dense, and shaggy. The color was a deep brown with an assortment of black hairs spread throughout the coat. Its eyes were round and black, its curved tusks almost half its body’s length, and its trunk thick and brown, covered in shorter hairs.

When it spotted Markus, it fixed its eyes on him, pawing the ground with legs as thick as trunks. It did not matter that there was an electric fence between itself and Markus—the threat was clear.

“I don’t think it likes you,” Damien’s voice floated up from somewhere behind him. Markus did not turn to see.

“You have a miniature mammoth,” what else was there to say?

Damien had the grace to sound embarrassed as he spoke, “It’s one of my projects,” Markus heard the sound of a footfall, “I find that most conventional methods include a lot of inbreeding and dwarfism to create poorly and sickly animals—this way, it’s easier to separate unwanted diseases and still have a healthy animal.”

“You’re making non-miniature miniatures,” Markus was sure he sounded impressed.

“Amongst other things, yes.”

And there was only one thing to ask of that, “Are there giraffes?”


	16. Jet Black Ink

The warehouse was cloaked in darkness by the time Markus wandered inside the older stores. In all truth, he seldom visited this particular area as it was unlikely anything would be missing. Not only did this make part of Izaac’s private collection (only someone severely brain dead would threaten anything that was _personally_ Izaac’s), but Izaac himself had assured him the objects would be safe. So for the time, Markus had neglected it.

Not that it was a purposeful neglect. Ever since he started the job, he had not been able to settle his affairs. Once he realized he would have no time to visit all the areas until he made time, he made sure to find hours where his wanderings wouldn’t be interrupted. He wanted to familiarize himself with the entire warehouse’s content, after all. And it was time consuming work.

He immediately decided he disliked the older areas simply because of the struggle he had to embark to find just a simple light switch. His fingers pressed against the walls, wandering their surfaces only to be met with nothing but slightly peeling paint. With a frown, he turned to face the wall, pressing both hands against its surface, fingers uselessly wandering.

That’s when he heard the rumbling growl from somewhere behind him. Slowly, Markus half turned to face the sound, ears pricked for any change in its tempo.

There was a faint orange glow coming from a few feet behind him—something you would expect from a cheap glow-in-the-dark toy. The growling picked up into a snarl once he moved, and the intensity of the glow grew so Markus could see what was facing him better.

It was a quadruped—more akin to a dog than not. It sported too-long prick ears, however, whose inside glowed of that faint orange. Its mouth was the same bright color too, and a stripe along its spine glowed with the soft orange color. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Markus noticed there was something even more off-putting than the neon glow. The creature had no eyes to speak of, instead round black globes with wide gaping eyes and mouth stretched from where its eyes should have been—reminding Markus oddly of ghosts. More of that inky black seemed too stretched along its back and limbs, either floating just short of touching its fur, or coming into contact with it and pooling into different shapes—a tree or a crypt or a dilapidated church. Despite the brightness of its mouth, its slaver was pitch black, it stretched from its mouth in ropes that congealed on the ground below it in puddles.

In short, it was downright _odd_.

Markus took a step back, only to feel his back press against the wall. The beast snarled, seemed to hesitate for a moment, the sound abruptly cutting off, before something made up its mind (a movement of Markus’—a look in his eye), and it padded after Markus with swift, sure steps.

He flinched, pressing as far back against the wall as he could as the creature stood before it. It was much bigger than what Markus would consider a dog. Although, he thought he had clearly established it was not.

It snarled, breathing in Markus’ scent with sharp wet noises. Blatantly ignoring Markus’ discomfort, it pressed its nose against his stomach, the inky black masses that seemed to work as its eyes pressing against his abdomen, and hips. Markus closed his eyes, tilting his face away as if that would somehow help. He was trying to think how to get away from the creature when it snarled once more, and Markus felt its thick saliva cover his shoes and pool on the floor.

He thought it would try taking a chunk out of him, but he only felt warmth stretch from his thighs to his stomach. Had he pissed himself? But no, when he dared to look down, it was only to see the beast licking him—doing a thorough job out of coating his jeans with its jet black saliva. It seemed to notice Markus looking, because it snarled, still eagerly working at licking the crotch of Markus’ jeans.

Sadly, Markus had to admit odder things had happened to him.

When Markus did not respond, it pushed itself up to stand on two legs—its front legs coming to rest at the wall. It huffed, snorted, then worried at Markus’ shirt with its teeth. When Markus didn’t immediately respond, it snarled, giving vicious tugs at the shirt. There was a threatening ripping noise, before Markus dared push at the beast’s snout. For a minute he thought its sharp teeth would slice right through his fingers, but instead it tilted its head away. Clearly expectant, it waited, the globs of its face intent on his every move.

Struggling not to make any abrupt movements, Markus removed his shirt. As soon as the pesky clothing was out of the way, the beast turned towards him again, its tongue flicking out to score at his chest. Somehow, its saliva was cold this time, and briefly Markus worried about acid. It wouldn’t exactly be unlike Izaac to have an acid-spitting guard dog.

It was not unpleasantly cold, however—in fact, quite the opposite. The beast’s rough tongue felt incredibly pleasant against Markus’ skin. His breathing quickened as the tongue darted across his abdomen, coating Markus in inky black. With a grunt, the creature pushed itself off the wall, landing on all fours to snarl at Markus’ crotch.

Markus’ fingers automatically moved to unbutton his jeans. They slipped against the sticky saliva, which only seemed to agitate the beast, but when the button finally popped open, even Markus sighed with relief. Eagerly, the beast pressed its nose against Markus’ crotch, its warm breath making Markus’ dick twitch in response. He gasped when its tongue darted out to lick the underwear. Somehow, the cold saliva didn’t feel as cold now.

Carefully, Markus pushed the beast’s mouth away from him. It snarled in a clear complaint, but it allowed for Markus’ manhandling, even giving a few steps back to give Markus his space. Wary of slipping on the puddles of saliva, Markus slipped the waistband of his jeans lower over his thighs, only to have the beast push its nose towards him again.

“You’re too eager,” Markus gently chided.

At the sound of his voice, the beast tilted its head—an odd sight, seeing as the globes that clung to its face did not.

Finally managing to step out of his jeans, Markus somehow managed to pull his underwear down with the beast eagerly pressing its cold nose against him, and scoring licks along his arms and legs, tail wagging. Once Markus stood completely bare naked, the creature rushed at him, licking at his dick eagerly. The cold made Markus shiver and his hands made as if to push the beast away, but somehow along the way, his fingers became clumsy and only brushed against the beast’s soft black fur.

It snarled at Markus’ crotch, its long, rough tongue working at Markus’ cock with vigor. A moan slipped past Markus’ lips, and this time, he managed to push the snout away from himself long enough to look down at his now-hard dick.

“Good dog,” he groaned. The beast’s ears pricked at his words.

When Markus’ hand left its snout, it turned back to Markus. It pressed its nose against his thighs, snuffling against his skin. Its gentle ministrations soon turned into a snarl yet again. With its teeth bared, it shoved its nose at Markus’ leg. Unsure, Markus side stepped, causing the beast’s snarls to grow louder. It licked its nose, flicked its tongue, and then shoved its head against Markus’ hips.

Markus stumbled then, and before he could catch himself, the beast rose on its back legs and wrapped its front legs against Markus’ waist. It snarled at Markus’ back, ropes of saliva trickling down his spine. Before Markus could catch on, he felt something sticky and cold rubbing against his legs.

He looked down to see what was clearly the beast’s dick—the same inky black of its saliva, and dripping with slime, long, and thick, and eager. It left a trail of black wherever it touched, staining Markus’ legs. He felt his dick throb at the sight.

The beast snarled yet again, giving a little hop that set its entire weight against Markus’ back. Still snarling, its back legs scratched against Markus’ legs, making Markus stumble. He tried catching himself on the far wall, but only barely made it. The beast snarled, pushing down, still maniacally humping against any bit of skin it could find. With a groan, Markus allowed himself to slip from the wall, falling down hard on his hands and knees.

It growled at him, pushing itself so its chest lay against Markus’ back. It struggled to find Markus’ entrance, giving sharp jabs with its hips but only dragging its dick along his ass. It snarled at Markus, its teeth coated in saliva, the globs that were its eyes tilting themselves to face Markus, pressing against his face.

He grunted as the beast finally slid inside him, slick and thick, something wet and cold slithering down his thighs. Markus grunted again when it snarled, its tail lashing, clawed fingers eagerly digging at his side.

“Easy now,” Markus managed to gasp before, with another snarl, the beast slid deeper inside him.

“I’m not going anywhere, y'know,” he kept his voice slow and steady, trying to soothe the excited creature. In response, its cold tongue darted out to stick to Markus’ shoulder blades, coating his skin with its thick black saliva. Markus resisted a cold shiver, instead only twisting slightly when the beast’s tongue pressed against the back of his neck.

It snorted when Markus pulled away from its mouth, its cold saliva peppering his back. It snarled then, fearing Markus would pull away from it, teeth snapping in a warning, claws digging at Markus’ ribs to prevent his escape. Once its hold on Markus was firm, it started moving its hips hurriedly against Markus’ own.

The movements made Markus’ teeth snap and rattle whenever he tried opening his mouth, so he ceased his attempts to calm it. The beast still snarled and growled despite nothing but soft groans and grunts slipping between Markus’ teeth. Adjusting Markus’ hips with its front legs, hips slapping against Markus’ ass, it hissed in pleasure. When Markus grunted, allowing a soft moan to slip by his lips, the beast seemed to calm. Its tongue darted out once more, scoring a lick against Markus’ cheek. Despite it, the frantic pace slowed only for a moment. When another moan escaped Markus, it snarled, this time clearly excited, and it’s frantic pace picked up anew.

With a few more thrusts, Markus started feeling something grow and expand, stretching him out wide. He gasped in surprise and the beast hissed, claws scratching against Markus’ side. Heat pooled into Markus’ abdomen then, and his heart picked up, his breathing quickened, and something pinched and twitched.

“Shit,” he gasped. 

The beast chittered in response, its thrusts slowing, stretching itself along Markus’ back to lick at his cheeks and neck. Markus tried moving only slightly, but the creature only snarled in response, tightening its hold on Markus. The message was clear: Markus wasn’t leaving. Not that he thought he could—with the thing’s dick hard and inflated inside, pumping out black goo that dribbled down Markus’ thighs. There was simply no way he was moving, never mind actually abandoning the beast.

Still, despite it all, when Markus looked down at himself, he saw a puddle of pale liquid within the black. At least he couldn’t claim he hadn’t enjoyed himself.

His luck dictated the door would open then. His head snapped up, and the beast shifted on top of him, snarling, fur bristling, despite its dick stuck firmly inside Markus.

It only took Markus a split second to realize who it was—a young lad, eager to please Markus and impress him, that had vouched to stick around in the later hours to help Markus. Probably had been looking for Markus when Markus had appeared to be missing and...

His eyes were as wide as saucers right now.

“Sir, do you need help...?”

The question sounded hesitant.

“No,” Markus choked out, struggling to make sure he was heard above the beast’s snarling. “Leave.”

The lad hesitated.

“_Now,_” Markus hissed, his words reinforced when the beast tried to surge forward, whining when it realized its predicament.

Quickly, the lad slammed the door shut behind. 

\--------------------------

Markus sat up with great trepidation, dreading the possible pain he should find when he tried leaning his weight on his ass. Legs spread, hands flat on the floor to either side of him, he observed the result of his fling with the guard dog.

He was covered in black ink almost entirely—the beast had managed to lick his chest, shoulders, and back until they were completely black. His dick was covered in the black goo—hair plastered to his skin. The beast’s cum turned out to be the same inky black as well, and it had flowed to cover his thighs and ass. The floor beneath him had handprints and swipes of black as well. Puddles coagulated by Markus’ feet.

“I’ll have to call maintenance,” Markus said, more to himself than anyone else.

In response, the creature tilted its head. After it had finished its work, it had stepped away from Markus, circling around him until it stood only a few feet in front of him. Close enough so if Markus stretched his arm, he could run his fingers through its fur. It seemed expectant.

“What?” Briefly, the idea that the beast wouldn’t understand him bubbled in Markus’ mind, but he pushed his doubts away. Izaac wouldn’t have stupid guard dogs that were unable to understand orders.

The beast whined then, dipping its head. Curious, Markus leaned forward, puzzled as to what it could be trying to communicate.

Its long orange tongue darted from its mouth to catch at something black and—

Several black and thick appendages that looked suspiciously like—

The only coherent thought that could pass through Markus’ head now went along the lines of:

_Of course it has three._


	17. Stitches

He looked different.

Barely a day ago, he had come, after an extended absence that lasted roughly whole week (it could have been longer for all I knew—I had never been one to keep track of time). His return was expected; his behavior was also mostly expected. He was already known for being eccentric, so a certain degree of caution upon the subject of his predictability was always deemed necessary. But like most creatures on this earth, they usually felt a sense of comfort upon returning to familiar sights, and from this rule he was not exempt. He was relieved, oh, surely very relieved—to return home to the warm circle of his lover’s arms, to feel the fabric of his own sheets under his back, and to smell those familiar smells. Yes, he was relieved. All of this, predictable—expected.

However, something was different this time—something that broke the fragile and tentative peace of the household, and had the faces of my housemates locked in grim determination. It was odd to see so many finally agreeing on what mood to settle, but not entirely surprising—it wouldn’t do to attract attention and incur Izaac’s wrath by a misplaced smile or a tentative joke.

He was wounded.

I never saw the total extent of the wounds as I was not there when he arrived. No, I was safely tucked in my room, head on my pillows, in that place between waking and sleeping, trying (not really) to keep myself awake, carefully contemplating the benefits of standing from my bed and padding downstairs. There were none, or so I had reasoned when the sounds of activity finally convinced me to stir. What I saw was, nonetheless, no less appalling.

There were bandages stained with faded red wrapped around his limbs and chest. Tiny cuts dotted his fingers and shoulders, and the beginnings of a longer, deeper gash could be seen snaking from under his left armpit and curling upwards, towards his shoulder. The wound bled freely, as I watched on, staining the bandage deft fingers attempted to wrap around him. It was as I followed the length of bandage with my eyes that I noticed a black-purple bruise on his chin, and a cut on his lip. Under the angry red cuts and inflamed wounds, his skin looked pale and clammy—covered in a thin film of sweat. His breathing was harsh and fast—a too-deep breath, and the air rattled in his throat.

Given his condition, it was no real surprise then that he was uncharacteristically quiet, and Izaac, hovering over his wounded lover like a lovesick schoolgirl, looked characteristically murderous.

Neither said a word, but every now and then, he’d lift his gaze, and Izaac would meet it, and some kind of understanding would pass between them. Concern radiated from Izaac like waves, but there was something about the way his gaze lingered on the bleeding wounds, and how his hands softly caressed the bandages, that hinted on thoughts that did not intend to allow the wounded to slip by unattended. Stuck between them, the ever solemn and hulking figure of Damien seemed almost small and insignificant, even as he tended to the wounds with the gravest of cares. It was difficult to pay attention to his bowed head when Izaac was twitching like a restless snake.

And like a snake, it was better if you left him alone and gave him a wide berth.

He said something then, something I quiet didn’t catch, but suddenly Izaac’s lips were meeting his, and I saw the fingers tentatively trace the still-bleeding wound of his shoulder. Izaac’s other hand moved slowly along chest and stomach, and rested upon the swell of his hips.

Damien drew back then, but did not look away. I reasoned, it would be wise to follow his example, though unlike Damien, I would not be looking. As quietly as I could, I showed myself out of the room.

He did not speak, did not deem it necessary. Normally there would be a snide remark, the curl of his lips, but not this time. 

It had been two days since his return, and the first time I had seen him since. Izaac had kept him stashed away in their room. No doubt that they had been occupied, and Izaac trying in earnest to keep him entertained. He had always been restless, the prospect of being locked in a room all day, forced to sleep and relax, would not suit him, and, as a result, now he seemed agitated. Anger simmered behind his gaze, though his touch was surprisingly gentle. It did not occur to me to think that maybe he was too weak to be more forceful until later—much later.

Izaac was gone now, however. Like always, he disappeared without a word. Usually I would not have dwelled into it too much—Izaac’s business was his own, and it was wise to keep your curiosity under lock and key where _he_ was involved. For this trip I had theories, I had suspicions—as most everyone in the house. Izaac would not leave his lover as frail as this without a good reason, and he would not have let Izaac leave his side without a single protest unless there was a crucial goal.

Whoever had managed to wound him to the extent where he was reduced to waiting and groaning, would not have long to live now. But that was a thought I hastily shut away—I had my own matters to deal with.

It was alarming to hear not a word from him—it reminded me more of Izaac than him. It was a stretch to say I looked forward to his visits, but he was not unkind. He made light jests, and always tried to make me feel at ease. I had grown used to the twisted sense of humor, and the hum of his voice when he spoke, always soft and low as if trying to sooth a wild animal, but there would be none of that now.

“Is this wise?”

Normally, I wouldn’t have spoken, but I could hardly ignore his condition. From this close up I could see just how grievous where his wounds. The bruises were discolored now, but they still blossomed over his chin, shoulders, back, and ribs. The bandages had been changed, but he had moved too briskly sometime between them being changed and now, and one of the bandages was starting to blossom with crimson. His breath was surer, although shallow, and he still looked pale. His was the guise of someone that should be resting in bed. 

His bright green eyes seemed to search my face for something, he did not speak. Not immediately, but he shifted closer, sliding over the bed covers as gently as he could, trying not to jostle and snap any more stitches.

“He said the same thing,” he rasped, a small smile hovering over his lips for the briefest of moments, before it was pushed back and swallowed up.

There was no need to ask who had said what. There were few people in this house that would directly question something he said—something he took copious advantage of. I nodded, turned to look away, and he took it as an invitation to draw closer, his head resting on my shoulder, his eyes half-closed.

“Sadly, not this time, my sweet.”

Some of my bafflement must have broken through my expression, because when I looked down there was a crooked grin on his lips, and he looked all the livelier because of it. He met my eyes, and the grin widened. I was aware that he was fond of doing things on a whim—that way he could twist his own senses better, and leave little space for a routine to settle, but I was hardly his favorite toy, and I was not the closest or most accessible either.

I did not know how to reply, so I held my silence. He stirred only once to correct his position to a more comfortable one but remained there. I could see one of the bandages on his shoulder starting to grow pink, then brilliant red, but if the pain bothered him, he did not show it.

Time trickled by, and I did not move an inch. My bones and muscles were starting to ache from the strain, and I struggled to keep my eyes open, half-dreading what would happen if I were to fall asleep, lose my balance, and topple over him. Like most, I did not enjoy waking up with the pricking of sharp thin teeth on my shoulder or the weight of a knife against my ribs, and there would surely be plenty of that. You did not lower your guard when close to a rabid dog and expect it not to bite. 

He seemed to sense my unease, because he moved then, a hand softly pressing against my shoulder. The hint was unmistakable and, deeply confused, I allowed myself to be led to fall flat against my own bed, feeling his weight press on top of me again. 

His breath caught suddenly, and his hand fluttered to his side, fingers coming away sticky and red. I looked away, shifting my gaze to his shoulder instead. I stared at the pale skin there, until I felt his lips pressing against the base of my throat.

I flinched, and he chuckled. “I’m sick and you won’t even excuse that,” his voice was low and raspy, his arms moving to hold him over me at either side.

I blinked up at him, but held my tongue. His response was to sigh, and he lowered himself to the base of my throat yet again, and this time I felt the unmistakable prick of teeth, followed by the press of his lips once more.

“You’re bleeding,” I heard myself say—like that mattered. Like he wasn’t aware of it already.

“A little blood doesn’t make you nauseous, does it, princess?”

The smell of fresh blood and sweat was, sadly, familiar. He moved slowly and cautiously, but he moved, and that was enough for the stitches to tear at the skin. I heard him growl, frustrated, once or twice, and groan softly in pain more times that I could count, but he was still relentless. He had ripped off one of the bandages when it presumably, caught on a stitch, and I was forced to hold my breath and look away. 

The gash was deep and wide—like the claws of something had dug up the skin, and the blow had been nothing but light. I was surprised it didn’t clip against a rib and break it in the process. Free from its bandages now, it bled freely, over his chest, and down towards me. I could feel his blood pooling along my back, wet and sticky. A thought fluttered briefly that Izaac would not be pleased, not because his lover was re-opening all his wounds (although I’m sure that would be part of it), but because he was loath to share him when his condition was so grave. This was something he would want for himself.

The slowness of his own movements seemed to frustrate him, but he rocked me slowly, his breath hitching or hissing past his lips when he moved too fast or too suddenly. Most of his strength seemed focus on not betraying his pain, but instead of being tense, muscles coiled, barely moving, his hands roamed, grasping, tugging, and scratching when his wounds allowed. 

I had no doubt that a small part of him had hoped that I would take pity on his condition, and splay myself on his lap, but although a small tinge of what must have been sympathy stirred within me when I caught sight of the red bandages and angry, puckered wounds, I was hardly going to make his job easier, and thus, snuffed it out. The word _vindictive_ popped to mind. I would not have minded having him in my company, but this was another thing altogether. If he had wanted someone easier there were plenty of others that would bow to his every wish. Izaac always made sure to fill the house with pretty things that would go easy on the eyes, and easier on his hips. I was not one of them.

Or maybe he knew it all along and that’s why he had chosen me today. I could not hope to predict all the things that sparked in that lizard brain of his.

His thrusts picked up in pace, and I found myself being pushed forward by the sudden force, groaning into the pillows. If he noticed or not, he gave no sign. He continued with renewed vigor, until I felt him pressing against my back, leaking more blood, pressing against me as close as he could. 

A groan, and his weight was suddenly gone. I felt a stickiness that could’ve been a hundred different body fluids across my thighs. I tried not to think about it, but it was impossible. My back was surely streaked with drying blood, and I had a compulsion to _see_—the idea of something on me that I could not identify made me feel oddly agitated. To look and be fascinated by either the amount of blood he left on me or the lack of.

So I twisted around and looked. There were streaks of blood across my hips that resembled fingers, and they stretched in a random assortment towards my legs, and higher up, on my back and my arms. I was unsurprised (and annoyed) to note that his sweaty and bloodied hands had wrapped around my length and caressed my chest, leaving bloody streaks that had long since dried against my skin.

He lay on his back next to me, eyes closed, breathing heavily and still freely bleeding from newly re-opened wounds. I flinched as I caught sight of one of the stitches that had snapped off the skin, the small black thread crooked and twisting over his chest, and the skin itself open and weeping, little rips on the flap of skin where the stitches had been. He was clearly in pain, and clearly willing to suffer it alone. 

If it was that bad, he would’ve asked me to fetch Damien—few in this house were as experienced as wrapping and mending wounds and ails as he, save Izaac himself, but he said not a word. If he had been panicked I would have risen from bed all the same, but mostly, he looked weary and tired. Pale and sweaty, and ready for a good meal and some sleep. He was bleeding, yes. And bleeding a rather worrisome amount, but I _doubted_ (or maybe I wished it) that it would be enough to kill him. If his condition was that bad, surely Izaac would have asked Damien to watch over his lover like a hawk and to stop him should he try to cause mischief?

And if, somehow, ever-loyal, cautious, and stubborn Damien was persuaded to let him slip by (because if he had somehow sneaked away, he would have been found and dragged away), then Damien would be nearby. He’d be ready to assist him should something happen to worsen his condition.

In conclusion: there was little to worry about. There would be few loopholes with anything Izaac planned—he was meticulous and orderly, he had not survived this long because he was an idiot, after all. And in the case that there _was_, Damien would be there to plug them before they leaked. Izaac did not keep mindless dolls by his side—each would be able to perform their duty, and make Izaac’s job easier, not be there to hinder and fail.

And it was with those thoughts—trying to reason out how nothing would happen and convince myself to remain at ease—that I fell asleep.

The room was shaking.

It took my sleep-fogged mind a moment to comprehend the tremors that went through my body, but once identified, my heart leaped to my throat and my eyes flew open. In the same instant my mind blanked: I suddenly could not recall, for the life of me, what one would do in such situations. Then a sense of disbelief settled over my muscles, boosted into activity by a rush of adrenaline, that this simply could not be happening.

But it _was_ happening, and I wasn’t doing anything about it.

My eyes spun around the room, desperate for a solution to float down from the heavens on feathery wings, and that’s when I noticed that this wasn’t tremors.

No, it was something quite different. For one, the shakes were isolated to a single area: namely, the bed. Two: earthquakes did not give low moans nor breathed fast.

That was when I looked to my left, seeking an explanation to the way the bed creaked and bounced.

He was sitting up now, his back pressed against the carved wooden headboard, where I noted there was a streak of blood. On his lap sat Izaac, his legs on either side of his lover’s waist, leaning back, with a hand clutching a bruised shoulder, and the other on the bed, clutching a sheet, fighting to keep his precarious balance. As I watched, he thrust down, his thigh muscles trembling with the effort to keep the desperate pace, and groaned softly, leaning forward into his lover’s chest to kiss him. There was eagerness there, and a part of me wondered if fucking next to a sleeping person was on their bucket list. If it was, they were doing a poor job of it.

That’s when I noticed the grey fabric splayed over my hips, and I pulled it back and identified it as Izaac’s pants. Gingerly, I slid them across the bed and let them drop to the floor.

A hiss drew my attention from my current predicament, and I saw the two sex fiends had broken their kiss, and were trying something else altogether. Izaac had pinched the corners of one of the stitches (wasn’t that the one that had broken off earlier?) between his index finger and thumb, and held it taut against his lover’s skin. 

They both watched on, fascinated, as Izaac gently tugged, and the thread stretched the skin it was attached to. A little popping sound, and the stitch broke the skin. They both hissed then, and Izaac turned to look up, a small smile lingering in his lips.

“We’ll need to stitch you up again,” he murmured, and they leaned forward, briefly kissing, before Izaac yanked the delicate thread back, snapping the rest of the stitches with one deft move.

His back arched, and the air _whooshed_ from his lungs. I flinched in sympathy, but besides giving Izaac a wide-eyed look, he did not complain. With a larger smile on his lips, Izaac threw the bloodied thread aside, and traced the wound with the same hand. There was a hesitation, slight, but there, and then his fingers dug into the wound, prompting a groan from him, and me to look away.

“You’re lucky it won’t get infected,” I heard him hum, “or not.”

A chuckle—not Izaac’s—abruptly cut off, “You break my heart.”

“Truly,” there was a sudden sharp inhale, and I heard hands scrabbling across the sheets, “maybe if I keep doing this, I’ll see it.”


	18. Christmas Invitation

It was while I picked at my breakfast with sullen determination that I noticed the little rabbit, peering at me from what seemed to be like ten pounds of fur with vicious tiny red eyes. It had something clutched between its teeth, and a paper stuck beneath its paws. Once it noticed me looking at it, it bent over, grabbed the paper, nearly tripped in the attempt, then hopped over the table, dodging the breakfast dishes until it managed to settle right in front of mine.

It shed.

That had to be unsanitary.

It then proceeded to drop the paper on my plate.

Now that was downright rude.

It kept staring at me.

“I don’t want to,” I told it.

It twitched its nose at me.

It was clearly not going to leave.

I sighed.

Peering at it cautiously, I tentatively reached for the paper, quickly snatching at it before the rabbit had a chance to fix its teeth in my fingers. Sparing the small rabbit a suspicious glance, I carefully unfolded the paper to peer at the writing within it.

_Merry Christmas!_ it declared cheerfully in a curvy handwriting that immediately threw up my guard.

_Happy Holidays! Happy Jesus day! Cheerful pagan holiday!_ it continued.

I peered at the rabbit. It stared back unblinking. I went back to reading the paper.

_I have a surprise for you in the basement. Please come as quietly as possible and do not tell anyone else!_

I stared at the paper.

I put the paper down.

I stared at the rabbi—

It has grown two heads.

Of course the rabbit had grown two more heads next to the larger round one. The two other heads gaped open-mouthed at everything. Mouths slowly closing and opening.

There was rabbit blood and fur all over my plate.

I grimaced.

“No,” I told the entire situation, and stood up to leave.

\--------------------------

It was as I was walking back to my room, eyes fixed on the ground just before my moving feet, hair coming down to cover my eyes like the world’s most annoying curtain, that I noticed the little drops of liquid before me.

As I drew nearer I could only confirm that it was blood.

Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I lifted my eyes to look about me, noticing nothing amiss in the walls of the hallway—nothing different in the floor beneath my shoes. It was all as it should be—

Which meant something was wrong.

A cold fear sliced through my spine as my mind came up with the only possible conclusion one could draw from such an occurrence. If there were blood drops on the floor that meant that they were coming from above.

I looked up—

And almost immediately on top of me there was a little white rabbit with three heads and beady little red eyes. The middle head was disproportionately larger—its eyes bulging out impossibly large. The other two small heads by the main one opened and closed their mouths like dying fish.

And now, leathery white bat wings wrapped around its otherwise incredibly fluffy body.

“Muhree cheesemus,” the creature said in a broken warped voice.

I blinked.

“Busmant pottyyyy,” it hissed.

I decided maybe it was time for a pleasant jog now.


	19. Christmas Dinner

Izaac had never been one for Christmas cheer. It was something that happened—people celebrated, some died, some decided to buy lavish gifts or elaborate special fights in honors of friends and family. Frequently, a request was made—a little favor asked of him. It was all business as usual—the holidays rarely proved much of a change in Izaac’s busy schedule.

Apep, however, decided to change that.

Not only had he managed to get Damien to decorate the whole house with pines, holly and fabric of red, gold, and green, but he also hung mistletoes over every possible corner—and made a show out of cornering Izaac and forcing himself on him. Not that Izaac complained, but it did get a bit extreme—now he could barely round a corner without Apep jumping him almost out of nowhere demanding his kiss. To top that off, he had insisted in hosting a “Secret Santa” event. In a moment of weakness, he had made Izaac agree to join, and Apep had wasted no time in rounding up everyone—willingly or not, into the event.

Which might explain why he was currently staring back at Markus with a face stuffed with bananas—cheeks glistening with the fruit’s juices, fingers sticky with it. Markus might have protested the event before, but at this precise moment he was in bliss—ever since he laid eyes on his gift, not a single scowl had marred his features. He was as happy as fish in water, and until the bananas ran out, he wouldn’t be up to much whining.

Damien had already given him his gift—a day free of work (most likely upon Apep’s insistence), a promise that he would do _all_ of Izaac’s paperwork, a few suits, a rambunctious new ass to stare at, bagels to nibble at, and a tie with a mistletoe design. He was sure Apep would force the tie on him later, but for what else Izaac would use it was beyond him.

He had also given Ashlin _his_ gift. Not that Ashlin was all that difficult to gift for. When he saw, Ashlin had merely giggled like a blushing maid, giving Izaac hurried thanks and well-wishes, and since then disappeared to his cellar. Markus had paled, eyes fixed on Ashlin and his little gift, but he had kept his silence. Izaac had made a note out of reminding Ashlin to keep quiet, trying to ease any discomfort (heaven forbid someone ruin Apep’s Christmas cheer). So far, not a single sound had slipped into the dining room.

That was not to say that the room was quiet.

In fact, Apep made quite the point in making it as noisy as humanely possible.

He had coerced the chef to give the karaoke a go, and given Izaac wistful glances. He apparently knew better than to ask, but it did not mean he could not wish it so. Izaac has quickly discovered that very little of his housemates could do this activity commonly referred to as “singing” and Apep seemed to be enjoying every moment of it.

“Are we having a pleasant Christmas so far?” the words startled Izaac out of his reverie, and his eyes flicked towards his husband’s face—wide and smiling.

“I can only think of one thing that would make it better...”

Apep’s smile widened and grew crooked. “Time with your family first,” he hummed, leaning forward to press his lips against Izaac’s—

The feeling of elastic tightening around Izaac’s skull.

Instinct made a hand to reach towards the source of his discomfort—only to be pushed away by Apep. He smiled at Izaac, the picture of innocence, and pressed himself towards Izaac again. There was a surprised grunt from across the table, a slight wrestle where Apep tried to keep Izaac’s hands away from his head.

“Not that I mistrust you, but I _am _curious as to what exactly you are doing with my skull,” Izaac eventually growled.

“A santa hat,” was his only reply. Izaac knotted his brows in a frown, but refrained from saying more, letting Apep pin his arms to his side.

And that was when he looked across the table—at a very disgruntled Markus whose clothes seemed to have been abruptly ripped off—replaced by a green garb with red accents and a green hat with bells. Markus gave the hat a tug, and only yelped in response. It took him a moment, but when it dawned on him, he shot Apep a glare.

“Why did you glue the hat to my head?” a very reasonable question, to be sure.

“So you wouldn’t take it off.”

There was silence for a few moments, Markus glowering at Apep, and Apep grinning in response—smug as a cat. When nothing changed Markus sighed, seemed to consider leaving, before he stubbornly sat down at the table, and continued gorging his food.

_At least there is that._

“Merry Christmas,” the words were followed by a nibble to Izaac’s ear, and the smile that tugged at Izaac’s lips was not just amused.


	20. A Need for Privacy

He was a sight to behold.

He moved with an easy grace that was uncharacteristic in humans: fluid and formal. The cut of his clothing revealed just enough tantalizingly smooth skin to easily stir an effect in his audience. Despite the drama of the garments, they did not overshadow him, in fact they hardly mattered—it was his eyes, or his hands, or his feet the attention was fixed on. When he smiled it lit up his whole face, and his eyes always appeared to be drawing you in; a slow heat. As soon as he met my eyes, offering a shy smile, I was immediately drawn.

Damn, he was good.

Immediately, I found myself weaving my way towards him, feeling a tinge of disappointment as he moved away; his mind elsewhere. The music throbbed, the voices of the people feeling the establishment roared on, oblivious. I was focused on my target; ignoring the fluorescent lights, the colorful glow sticks or the mist rising from the floor.

He weaved between the crowds with ease—clearly used to the work, stepping lightly around them without stirring a single hair. I tried to see if he’d look my way to draw his attention, but whatever had his feet moving clearly held his sole focus. Never once did he care to look over his shoulder.

To my surprise, he stepped into an open door, pausing briefly and squinting at the fluorescent lights, before disappearing into the entrance. Without a single hesitation, I followed him, ignoring the red letters that read _STAFF ONLY_ printed above the doors.

Inside, it was utterly dark. I could draw vague details, like the fact that this was a long hallway—some stairs leading up towards the rooms, and another entrance opening up into another hallway. The floors were hardwood; I spotted what I was pretty sure was a mop with some cleaning detergents shoved in a corner.

Cautiously now, I picked my way forward, my eyes slowly becoming used to the darkness.

He was standing by the entrance that lead up the stairs, his back pressed against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest. The glow stick necklaces draped around his throat illuminated him just enough for me to see what he was smiling.

“I figured we’d have more privacy here,” his voice was surprisingly soft, his tone, gentle. It almost had a sleepy, soothing quality to it.

“So you saw me,” I was a bit surprised, but not unpleasantly so, if I had known the purpose of that wild goose chase before, I had been a bit calmer; taken it easier.

The smile widened, “You’re a bit hard to miss.”

I looked away from him then, eyeing the entrance from where we had come. People surged in the dance floor, bodies gyrating, grating, sweating. It didn’t look like security would drop by, but surely someone would have seen either of us going through the door. It’d only take a few minutes at most, and a staff or bouncer would be poking their nose in to kick us out.

“I don’t think it’s wise to linger,” I said, frowning at the dancers.

Suddenly, he was there, a hand pressing against my face, leaning into tantalizingly close, a mischievous smile hovering over his lips. “I like it when men look at me when they talk,” he said in that soothing, sleepy voice, “they say a direct gaze is a sign of a sincere heart.” He paused then, letting me mull that out in silence, “Won’t you look at me when you speak, mmm?”

Unable to resist his request, I turned to meet his eyes, automatically moving to wrap my arms around him, “And what do you think I’d hide?”

That made him chuckle, “Many things, I’m sure.” He met my eyes again, smiling, “I’ve never seen you around here before, care to tell me your name?”

“Damien,” there was no real harm in giving it to him, I supposed. If things ran smoothly, I didn’t expect him to stay here for much longer.

“Damien,” he made it sound like the most interesting thing he had ever heard, pronouncing each syllable carefully, slowly. The sound of it seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded, and smiled, a small, shy thing that had me smiling in response.

“That’s right, and what would yours be?”

“They call me Shayne.”

_They call me_, so that meant it wasn’t his real name, though that was a given. He hardly fitted the name, and it seemed much too sweet, rolling off his tongue in a way that had me thinking of laying back in bed, my head on the pillows and—

“I don’t think we can stay,” I told him again, this time making sure to meet his eyes as I spoke.

He smiled again, nice and slow, “Don’t like it here?”

“I don’t want us to be interrupted,” and with that, I leaned forward, pressing my lips against his. He responded quickly; wrapping his arms around me and responding, his lips slow and soft against mine.

Too soon, however, and he split the kiss, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “It’ll cost you, you know.”

“I’ll pay,” and this time, when I kissed him, he didn’t protest, allowing my hand to drop lower, grasp him closer, press him against me. His own hands moved, but much slower, dragging his fingers lightly across my hair.

When we parted, I was pleased to note that a red flush had crept to his face. His grin when he caught my expression was wider now, “Let’s go upstairs,” he hummed, taking my hand and leading me up several steps. “You won’t have to worry about interruptions then, hmm, Damien?”

\--------------------------

He sat up next to me on top of the white silken sheets, puffing quietly on a cigarette and looking out the window. I had come to realize that this was a habit he developed; something he wouldn’t change. When we were finished he had given me the option to leave or stay, surprising in itself, but as he had explained with a crooked grin—his rates were such that a single client more than sufficed for the night. He was in no hurry to be rid of me, since it meant he could rest.

I assumed he rarely had any rest—one couldn’t see it from the darkness of the main building where we had first met, but here, with him so close I could see the lines of weariness in his body. There were bag under his eyes, and usually, when we were done, it was all he could do to crawl towards the night stand next to the bed, and pull out his ever-present smokes. Surely, there were not many tricks that’d take up his offer and settle down, so this only emphasized the futility of his words farther.

He did not protest about much either, when I pulled him to me, he dutifully snubbed out his cigarette and turned his full attention to me. I had come to realize, that when he spoke he did as a mere suggestion. If I’d ask him to be quiet, he would’ve done so without even thinking about it. Cleary an after-effect of the trade; he was a meek and passive as a doll, and looked the part too.

After those first few nights, however, I had desisted from bothering him. I was content enough to lay by his side and watch him. Never was he the one to start a conversation; if I left it up to him, he’d spent the rest of the night in silence. It was unnerving at first, to be so close to someone, but not hear a single word from them. Oftentimes I had broken the silence, and he had continued the conversation, but I realized that was just it: he continued it. If I stopped replying, for whatever reason, he’d drop the subject and melded back into his silence.

It was just the other night that I had come to realize why silence was his shelter: he simply knew nothing else. Little Shayne seemed to be completely and utterly deaf.

Very little of his patrons seemed to be aware of the truth either, and I suspected there was a reason why it wouldn’t be divulged. After all, didn’t it have a kind of allure to meet someone that would meet your gaze and hold it? Someone that would always look at you when you or they spoke? It was not something one often saw in people, even briefly, their gaze would wander, their attention distract it. But Shayne couldn’t really afford it.

That explained why he insisted so much on being looked at when spoken too; why, at times, he spoke so slow and carefully; why he would oftentimes force you to repeat what had you just said.

Of course, he played his part nicely. Most times he made it seem like it was nothing to ask of you; and often, it was so. His role was almost seamless, it was easy to see how so many could dismiss it as something trivial and commonplace.

He had noticed; I’m not sure why or how, but he had noticed when I came to the realization that he was deaf, but he had merely laughed. His words had been coy then, and I wasn’t sure how honest he had been—probably, not at all. But he had shrugged it off as commonplace, and did not speak of it again.

“Don’t you want to go again?”

I was surprised to hear him speak out, and when I turned my gaze from the ceiling, he was looking straight at my face.

Call him what you may, but he was not stupid—I’m sure there was more to the question than its surface, so I avoided it, “Do you?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to leave, then?”

He shrugged.

He reminded me of someone...

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“No,” didn’t even humor me there.

“You can lie.”

“I’d lie either way,” I expected him to turn away, end the conversation, but to my surprise, he kept looking at me. He was curious.

“Do you like it here—what you do, how you work?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he was avoiding the question. Not exactly a lie, but close.

“You could get treatment for your hearing.”

He tilted his head quizzically, reminding me of a cat, “Why would I want to hear?” his voice was soft, low.

“You could be doing something else with your life...”

He regarded me in silence then, the cigarette in his hand forgotten. He seemed to grow aware of the smoke, or perhaps the weight of it in his hands, because he lifted to his lips, took a drag, and—to my surprise—snuffed it out.

“Like what?” he looked genuinely curious now.

I was at a loss as to what to say; not because of a lack of answer, but because of a surplus of them. I tried to put a string of words together, but found myself unable to in a way I felt satisfied. Finally, with a sigh, I just said what I’d knew he was expecting, “You could come with me.”

He didn’t even smile for me, simply kept studying my face, meeting my gaze. “You’re serious,” he didn’t even sound the least bit surprised.

“Won’t you consent?” I sat up now, shifting the bed covers around me so I could better garner his expression.

“No.”

I had to admit, his flat-out refusal caught me by surprise.

“Why not?”

He smiled now, a sly, bitter thing, “How would that be any different from what I’m doing now?”

“You wouldn’t—”

He cut me off, “That’s right, I wouldn’t.” He fell into silence, looking out the window, past the thick wine red curtains, thoughtful. It would have been useless to talk to him then, and calling his attention would only work to aggravate him further, so I left him as is. His hands clutched the plush sheets; his breath came slow and even. After a few minutes, he sighed, and when he looked at me again, there was a smile over his lips, “You’re kind, Damien. I was right to fish you out, but this is not what I want. I have very little that’s mine here, but it is all I have.”

So, he’s afraid of change. It was as simple as that, but the plain, straightforward answer left me wondering if this was not the first time he had refused an offer like this. From the serene way he seemed to be taking it all, he didn’t think this would be the last offer either. I could have threatened him then, told him that his consent hardly mattered, but I think he was well aware of that. He simply spoke his mind, in that same suggestive way he always did—trying to twist my will to his, but not demanding it.

“You wouldn’t have to do this unless you wanted to,” from the way he smiled at me, I could tell he did not believe me, “I know I can’t convince you, but it’s the truth—you’ll see.”

He did not reply, instead, he looked away. I could see how his body went from exhausted to merely resigned. He did not nod in acknowledgment or speak again to dissuade me. He simply looked out the window, his face turned away from me.

Eventually, he spoke, and his tone of voice was the same soothing, gentle one he had used from the start, “Leave me.”

Another of his suggestions, but this one I would take. I nodded to myself and stood from the bed, gathering what was mine. I busied myself dressing and picking up, trying to linger in hopes that he would speak again. Never once did he look at me, though. His attention was focused on that night sky outside, and a little part of me wondered what he saw in it. It was only as I finished up that I noticed he has picked up another cigarette, and this time, his eyes were closed.

With little choice, I left him, resigning myself to be held in his bitter thoughts. My solace was that they wouldn’t last, soon. Just a few days more, at most.

\--------------------------

He was breathing heavily. A thin film of sweat covered his limbs, and at times, I could swear I saw him shaking. He breathed shallowly, and seemed to have picked up the habit of scratching his arms, or face, or hysterically winding his fingers through the hairs of the wig. Sometimes, he’d throw fleeting glances in my direction, but it was only to glare at me.

He hadn’t spoken a single word to me. Once he had shaken his head to decline my offer on some food, but as far as communication went, that was it. He was not only visibly upset, but visibly nervous as well. At first I dismissed it to simple moodiness, but as time passed, and he only grew worse, a suspicion nestled in my skull—

“Did they give you anything?” I turned my eyes from the road to look at him.

He was looking at the window—at the night sky with its glittering stars, a mournful expression on his face. I noticed the pallor of his skin, the sweat covering his face, and I knew my suspicions were right. Sadly, my words were lost on him, but he seemed to notice me moving out of the corner of his eyes because he turned his head my way, albeit reluctantly, and making it seem like just moving was excruciating.

“Drugs,” I tried saying the word slowly, pausing to see if he understood before carrying one, “did they give you any?”

He shook his head, looking back to the window once more, and I found myself sighing wearily. This would be a long car ride.

Gently, I brushed my fingers against his shoulder to get his attention once more. This time, when he turned to look at me, he made no attempt of hiding his contempt—glaring and setting his jaw. I gingerly withdrew my hand from fear he’d lash out and bite it—he looked fit enough to do it, at least.

“We’re going to a hotel,” he hadn’t given me the chance to explain before, so I figured doing so might ease his nerves, “I can get you whatever you need then—do you think you can hold up until then?”

He looked back at the window, “I want fresh air.” 

Throw me a bone here, at least let me know if you understood or not. But, I supposed nothing to be done about it—maybe the fresh air really would help. With little choice, I lowered the window for him. He leaned further into the door immediately, fully turning his back towards me now. One had to marvel at how thorough he could be with ignoring someone when he wanted.

He did not speak for the rest of the car ride, and when I tried to get his attention, I was simply ignored. He did not say a word when we pulled away from the street into our hotel’s parking lot. He was curious at the very least, he craned his head to better see the building, seeming to drink the details in eagerly, but there was no way of knowing if he was impressed, displeased, or even if he recognized his surroundings.

When I climbed down from the car to open his door, however, I realized he was frowning. His limbs shook now; the carefully combed and smoothed wig now had received thorough fiddling from his hands, and was starting fall into disarray, his breathing was quicker now. It was obvious how far his condition had deteriorated since I first saw him this afternoon. I supposed he was used to suffer in silence, but a little part of me wished he’d spoken up a bit sooner. Too late for regrets now though, so I tried to push back any annoyance I felt, and tend to him as gently as I could.

Immediately, he fell into my arms, clinging to them with surprising strength despite his poor condition. I tried to steady him, but when he looked up at me, he was smiling.

“Carry me,” was all he said before he went as limp as a doll in my arms.

I struggled to keep him from sliding to the ground, and throughout it all, the grin did not once leave his lips. Finally, after angling him towards my chest, I managed to wrap my arms lower over him to keep him from tipping to the sides. Clearly, he was enjoying himself, because he hid a grin against my chest.

I sighed. This would be like dealing with a mischievous child, wouldn’t it?

Carefully, I lifted him from the ground, an arm wrapping around his bottom. Once settled, he wrapped his arms over my shoulders, leaning his head against my shoulder and snuggling into it.

“I need to get the bags,” I told him—couldn’t very well do it with him occupying most of my limbs now, could I?

“Call a porter,” he said simply, refusing to budge even the tiniest bit.

Excellent.

With little choice, I carried him towards the entrance of the hotel. It was not the grandest thing, and not what I would usually settle down for, but with Shayne in tow, I had little choice but to take what was available. Not that it was bad; it was clean and neat, esteemed and orderly. Just not the grandeur I was used to when traveling with Izaac. 

I stopped by the front stairs long enough to check on Shayne and see how he was fairing, before stepping inside; already dreading the coming explanations.

One would think of it almost miraculous how his mood could change from sullen and angry to hyper and giggly because of a few chemicals. He had recovered, not only his mood, but physically, he looked better as well. As soon as the drugs coursed through his body and started taking effect, he had stood up from the spot where he had laid down in the bed, and promptly dragged the dress over his head, depositing it on the floor.

I wanted to comment on it, but before I could say a word, he was kicking off his little varnish shoes, and was climbing back into the bed. He seemed to think about something then, putting a slender finger to his lips, before breaking into a grin. Just like that, the wig was off, and he threw it aside to make a pile atop the dress and shoes. When he caught the look on my face, he giggled looking back towards the window.

I waved a hand to call his attention, but when he turned his head he did not even let me put a word in, “I hate these clothes,” he sang, and upon my perplexed look, he hastily added, “you said I didn’t have to do it anymore.”

“You’ll need to put them back on later,” I tried to be gentle, but there was really no way around it, “you can’t waltz around naked in the morning.”

He grinned at me, “Why not?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but before a single word could leave my lips, Shayne was suddenly there, pressing his lips to mine and pushing me back onto the bed. I was too surprised to protest, not that I think I would’ve anyway. When my back was against the sheets, he straddled me, smiling down at me, and tugging at my shirt.

I peeled it away for him, turning to throw it on the floor, but before I could, Shayne snatched at my hand. I let him slip the shirt from my first, both perplexed and amused by his sudden bout of playfulness. To my surprise, he tugged it over his head, and smiled at me.

“There,” he said with a smug grin, “now I’m dressed.”

I smiled and shook my head. It was impossible not to notice the difference. He sat back over my thighs, pulling at the over-sized shirt, and carefully feeling the fabric. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but to me it was very clear that I’d need to get his measurements soon and buy him new clothes—if there was maybe a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt amongst his clothes, I’d be exaggerating. I only saw dresses, shorts, and skirts. Of course, if I had known sooner, I’d have tried to get him some clothes to his liking, but I suppose there had really been no time to do that.

“You look a bit ridiculous,” a white button-down shirt and little beige, delicate looking thigh-highs with little hearts over the edge of them did not exactly fit together.

“I always look ridiculous,” he smiled up at me, “but I’ll choose how now, right?”

“Yes,” though, I must say, if he was always going to be walking around with thigh-highs and button down shirts, it might be hard to convince Izaac to take him seriously, “we can get you new clothes. Anything in mind?”

He mulled over the question in silence, taking a surprisingly long amount of time to answer—I suppose, he had never really considered it before. “You look so nice in these monkey suits,” I noticed his words slurred little.

I tried not to chuckle, sitting up to better look at him, “We can find you some ‘‘_monkey suits,’’_ then.”

“Mmm, but they wouldn’t really fit me.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I reached over to ruffle his hair, and he smiled at me, leaning towards my chest.

“I’m lanky—you’re fit. They’d look like monkey suits on me.”

“We’ll see,” I said, smoothing back the hair from his face. He did not protest, but leaned into me, his head resting on my shoulder, his eyes closed.

Eventually, he looked back up to me again, his eyes wide and searching. He smiled—his shy, endearing smile, and said in that soothing, gentle tone he was so fond of using, “Is there more?”

There was no doubt about what he was asking. “Not now,” I told him, setting my hands to his hips and pulling him closer. He did not protest when I tilted his chin up and kissed him, but neither did he react much more than simply moving his lips under mine. 

When we split the kiss, he did not meet my eyes—instead, he looked down, at my chest, his hands laid back on his sides. “I thought you said I wouldn’t have to do this anymore,” his voice was soft, gentle—another of those suggestions of his.

And as much as it pained me to admit, he did have a point there: it was a promise, after all. “That’s right,” I tried to keep the disappointment from my voice with little success, “you should go rest.”

I slid back to have my head rests on the pillows, allowing Shayne to climb down from me as he wished. He lingered however, looking lost and unsure, his hands fisting around the blankets. He seemed to concentrate on breathing evenly, looking around the room—the walls, the ceilings, the curtains, the bed.

“It’s alright,” I assured him, pressing my fingers lightly around his hand, “go rest.”

He still didn’t move, however. He looked at me now, seemed to drink in my face through narrowed eyes, before he nodded once. I smiled back at him, already closing my eyes to, hopefully get some sleep, but he was there; pressing against my lips, his hands curling around my hair. He was eager now, grinding and moving against me, causing me to groan. He drew back to catch his breath, but before he could swoop down once more, I stopped him with a finger over his lips.

“You don’t have to.”

He grinned at me—large and cat-like, “But I want to.”

After that, it was no use protesting him.


	21. Twitching Nose

They were on the carpeted floor—spirals of deep metallic blue, silver, and grey, outlining the shape of their bodies. Ashlin’s golden hair lay in a halo around his head, and his arms were wrapped around Cain—one resting over his waist, and the other cradling Cain’s head. A sheen of sweat covered their skin, and there was nothing to cover them save the angle. From where he stood, Markus has a good view of Ashlin’s slim back, Cain was mostly obscured save the swell of his shoulders and the bottom half of his face. Markus could not tell, but he thought they were both sleeping.

Which did not explain why they were in the middle of the living room, but with Ashlin there—

Ashlin. If he woke, Markus would be in serious trouble. He was usually calmer when Cain was around, but he was not a man that would easily forgive a fault or slight done to him. He’d remember. He’d remember when Markus long forgot, and in the dead of night, he’d haul Markus by his feet, kicking and screaming and—

It was then that Markus noticed the rabbit. It sat upon the plush silver sofa, its nose twitching, its beady black eyes fixed on Markus. The ears were straight and forward, its fur was white with black spots and eyeliner-like markings around its eyes—no doubt at who it was studying.

Immediately, Markus’ nerves left him, and he was paralyzed under the rodent’s gaze. Neither dared move, and neither breathed until a groan made both their head’s turn.

Cain had woken—he sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands. He yawned, stretched—arms extending upwards until his back gave a little popping sound—then blinked. His head turned abruptly in Markus’ directions, and his eyes look puzzled.

Before Cain could speak, Ashlin stirred next to him, drawing his attention away from Markus. Hurriedly, and before Ashlin could notice, Markus made his way towards the opposite door. His legs felt like jelly as he moved, and his breathing came in harsh shallow breaths.

“Why are we here?” the silence was such, that Cain’s voice carried, and Markus could hear him even when he was mere steps away from freedom.

“I-I don’t know,” Ashlin’s voice sounded oddly hushed, “I think I got too excited...”

A chuckle, “There isn’t even a mirror here.”

“Y-Yeah. I don’t know what happened...”

And before Markus could hear more, he quietly shut the door behind him, not even daring to feel relieved then. He’d feel safer when he was back in his room and as far away from Ashlin as possible.


	22. Presence

Tired and weary from work, the last thing I expected to see when I stumbled into my room, was a figure lying prone on the bed, sheets tossed around it.

I stiffened, instinct kicking it. Trying to keep as quiet as possible, I slid to my own bedside trying to gauge if there was a chance of a threat—

But it was only Shayne.

A bed-haired, half-naked Shayne, sporting only one of my white button-down shirts and lavender thigh-highs, laced with soft yellow ribbons along the sides. He did not stir, and it only occurred to me half a moment after that he had no way of knowing I was there. I could have stormed through the room with a whole marching band and he still wouldn’t have woken.

His presence was a comfort—at the very least, there would be no harm coming from Shayne. However, I still had to wonder what he was doing here.

My room was set apart from the rest to avoid this sort of situation. None of the house’ inhabitants really knew where it was. No one save Izaac, Ashlin, and Apep, at least. Occasionally Izaac smuggled a treat into my room—blindfolded, tied, and gagged so there was no real way of pinpointing where it was.

Indra knew where it was too, I supposed, but from the outside. He wouldn’t know how to navigate the majority of the house, let alone find my room.

The bottom line was, however, that Shayne shouldn’t know—he shouldn’t _be_ here. I hadn’t seen him following me either, had no real reason to. At least, I would’ve thought so.

So, how did he get here...? And why?

Not that there was much use puzzling out. He was fickle, and energetic. He refused to meet with Izaac, or with anyone else, so the only one he knew was me. I had tried convincing him to at least go into the kitchens, but he had refused. I feared he had wanted to starve himself, but when I brought food to his room, he ate it—provided I brought it. When I sent Mouse he wouldn’t even open the door to his room. How he knew it was Mouse outside the door and not myself was beyond either of us, but somehow, he knew.

There wasn’t any real harm in having him floating along the room to sleep on my bed and steal my clothes. However, there were documents around the room—things Izaac wanted to be kept secret. If Shayne wandered into any of those...

I supposed the security tapes could be checked, but I wanted to trust Shayne in that at least. He wasn’t exactly new to this type of business, he should know better than to snoop around. When I glanced around the room everything seemed to be in order at least—everything save my drawers. Those he had hounded and eaten through with the efficiency of a termite. I saw some of my underwear strewn around, shirts piled on top of each other, and ties clinging from the bedposts. It wasn’t hard to visualize him hunting through my clothes, trying things on, and then to spite me, drop them where he stood.

I had to admit, he did look kind of cute sleeping on my bed with my shirt draped over his lanky shoulders. I had to wonder if that was all that he had wanted from me when he snuck into my room—his measurements had been taken, but the clothes had still to arrive. Maybe he was hoping to find me?

I drew nearer to the bed, setting myself down on the edge to look down on Shayne. He looked better than he had that first day at least—the bags under his eyes appeared to have lessened, and he had made good use of the lavish bathroom adjoined to his room.

As I watched, his eyelids fluttered open, and he looked at me with almost comical surprise.

“You’re here,” he hummed in pleasure, two simple words that almost tugged a smile to my lips. Hastily, he pushed himself up, grasping my hand and flashing a coy smile that could only mean one thing.

I leaned towards him and we kissed, his hands wasting no time to flashing towards my clothes, trying to undo the buttons of my suit, of the pants. I tried helping him, tearing off my clothes with as much reckless abandon as I dared. 

“I didn’t think you’d ever come,” he breathed once we split the kiss, his eager hands roaming my form.

“You wrecked my wardrobe.”

“You’re late,” he countered, wrapping his legs around my waist, rubbing himself eagerly against me.

“I didn’t expect you to be waiting on me.”

He flashed a smile, eyes sparkling with endearing mischief, “Aren’t I your whore?”

I stiffened against him, eyes widening slightly as it suddenly all fell into place. He still thought...

Gently, I disentangled his limbs from me, trying to ignore the confused look he was giving me and concentrating on gathering my thoughts.

“No,” I finally managed to answer. It was impossible to ignore the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“Then, what am I?” he still sounded hurt, and I feared he knew what he was thinking—that he was meant for someone else. He’d rather be forced to entertain me than a total stranger.

“That’s why you need to talk to Izaac,” I tried to sound gentle, tried not to spook him more than what he was, “he’ll clear up the details of your contract, and you can choose what you want then.”

He was still hurt; still didn’t completely understand. “What if I want to be with you?”

“You don’t have to be a whore anymore,” how else could I say it?

“It’s the only thing I know how to do,” he looked away from me then, signaling the end of the conversation. I could already see him trying to slide off from the bed, to walk away from the room, dejected and worse for wear than he had been.

I reached for him, my fingers tightening around his wrist to hold him in place. He refused to look at me, even when I gave his limb a slight tug—I wasn’t sure if he was afraid or simply giving me a hard time for the sake of it.

“Shayne,” I tried, hoping he saw my lips moving and turned his head to look at me, “Shayne, listen a bit.”

It took a few minutes, but finally he turned his eyes towards me, scowling.

“Izaac will keep his end of a bargain no matter what. You can ask for whatever you like—I promise he’ll see it through.”

He still scowled, but before I could say more, he looked away, glaring at the wall in front of him. I released his wrist, resigning myself to his troubled thoughts, but to my surprise, he did not move, for him to storm out of the room and live in fear of the day I would be forced to drag him to Izaac. 

“I like you,” he finally said after a few minutes of silence, when I thought he would not speak anymore.

That brought a small smile to my lips. Gently, trying not to startle him, I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him to me until his back was pressed against my chest. He turned his head to lean it against my shoulder, eyes half-closed. I wasn’t sure, but I thought he was drawing comfort from the way my arms wrapped around him.

Speaking was of little use, so I focused in placing sloppy kisses along the side of his throat and shoulder. He did not protest me, in fact, far from it. His fingers wrapped around my arms, and he arched his back against me, twisting his head to place a light kiss on my jawline.

“Lay down,” I urged him, “I want to give you a treat this time.”

His eyes widened, and his hands suddenly stopped moving. He looked like he was about to protest, but I silenced him with a peck on the lips that quickly morphed into something deeper. Hastily, we both shifted our positions so he lay with his back against the bed sheets, eagerly crushing himself to me.

I split our kisses so I could place nips and licks lower over his body, pausing only to slide my hand against his thighs to spread his legs.

“You don’t—”

I stopped him with a touch, flashing a grin as I repeated with his little teasing words: “I _want_ to.”


	23. Pretty Pony

When Markus awoke it was to discover that some force had cleaved his bed clean in two. He discovered when he nearly impaled his ass on the broken splinters of wood, and for once, he had to marvel at how he managed to crush Izaac’s hardwood bed.

Then the ridiculousness of the thought rose to his mind and he felt himself frowning.

He stretched, wary of hurting himself on the sharp pieces of wood, and half-rolled, half-crawled from the bed, and it was only once he firmly stood upon the floor that he noticed he was not standing on two legs but four.

That gave him pause. Not a long one, but it did create a moment of self-doubt. Markus looked down.

Hooves.

He raised a leg and the right front hoof lifted as well. Yes. Those were definitely his—

Thin muscular legs, shapely hooves. There were four white socks, three of them just above knee height, the other one stopping just at the knee. From there the fur turned a darker brown—maybe black? And oddly red-toned fur crept up his calves and covered his now horsey belly.

Markus blinked at himself.

A tail flicked behind him, deep black hairs, evenly cut.

Well.

Funny, he was pretty sure the hairs of his ass weren’t jet black, but who was to question the logic behind that when his whole bottom had morphed into a horse? Was he supposed to eat hay now? Neigh in annoyance and pleasure? Did he have horse ears now?

He reached his hands up—no. His ears were round and smooth, with the shell of it hidden just beneath his hair as it always was.

He didn’t particularly feel like eating hay.

He supposed it would do.

Drawing an internal sigh, Markus stepped around the bed to head for Damien’s room. Somehow, Damien would have to fix it, _if_ he wasn’t involved, at least.

The floor felt odd beneath my hooves. 

And it was incredibly awkward to walk on four legs instead of two.

But somehow, I managed to take a few unsteady steps out of the room and into the hallway. I gritted my teeth as I took slow careful steps ahead, feeling my knees shake underneath me. A few clopping steps later and I managed to fall into a rhythm that felt easier on my legs. A few more and I was steady enough to walk without shaking.

I hadn’t bothered throwing on a shirt, but I had taken my bed sheet with me, and wrapped it around my torso in an attempt to keep warm. I guess the fur along my new horse bottom kept the rest nice and toasty.

I turned on the hallway, suddenly hesitating. I was going to go to Damien for assistance, but that suddenly did not sound like a very good idea. He might decide to test out my luscious bay rump.

I looked back at myself—at least it was a nice rump. The fur was almost red with how shiny it was, and the tail was thick and black. The legs were nicely muscled, and the hooves were comfortably trimmed.

At least I made a damn good horse (ass).

“Markus?” the melodic voice startled me out of my reverie. I looked about, hooves clopping against the tiles of the floor, tail lashing.

“Izaac,” I said as matter of greeting, “what is—?”

Izaac blinked—I noticed he was not perfectly groomed as he usually was. His golden hair was tousled about him, and the shirt and jeans he wore looked suspiciously like Apep’s. I was almost insulted at how casual he looked.

“You didn’t do this?”

More clopping hooves. Why did my bottom half refuse to stay still?

“No,” and for some reason I completely believed him. He was regarding me with open curiosity, and when he frowned I could almost see him ticking off a list in his head.

“Arabian stallion?” he asked, but I didn’t think the question was directed at me.

Izaac approached, laying a hand on my side, stroking the flank, and gently patting my legs. I snorted in dismay, and tried to step away, but it was, of course, useless.

“Good legs, nice back,” he said under his breath. It unnerved me—was he going to auction me?

“If you didn’t do this who then—?”

Izaac did not answer me. He continued to inspect me, even when I discreetly tried to step on his feet—

Which made me notice he wasn’t wearing shoes or socks. He was barefoot.

“Stay _still,_” he chided, “it was probably Apep—he’s the only one that could do something like this.”

That was true.

“Where is he then?”

Izaac wrinkled his nose, “Nearby, but in no state to see you.”

“What does that mean?”

Izaac looked up at me, arching a single thin eyebrow, as if it was the most obvious thing. I bit my tongue then, reluctantly, but I did, stomping my hooves on the ground and flicking my tail.

“Damien will want to see you,” Izaac declared, and I tried not to sigh.

\--------------------------

“Pony!” the words caught me by surprise, but even more so the sudden force that hit my side, propelling me forward and nearly making me lose my feet (hooves?).

“Apep!” I hissed, cocking a hoof to prepare to kick back at him before realizing what a dreadful idea what would be. “Could you not do that?”

He looked up at me with a goofy grin, and that was when I noticed he was completely naked.

Well, Izaac _had_ been wearing his clothes earlier.

“Markus, why are you such a pretty pony?” ignoring me, Apep pushed away from my side only to run his hands along it, patting me excitedly. “Such a pretty coat,” he hummed, “are you an Arabian? I used to have some—such good horses. You look really pretty.”

How the hell could they tell what horse I was supposed to be based on my _ass_?

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

He stopped patting me then, craning his head to look up at me, “I didn’t think you were a centaur,” he said, “but that’s OK, you’re so pretty I can deal with your deceit.” Then he proceeded to pet me and croon about what a deceitful little pony I was.

I debated kicking him anyway after all.

“If you didn’t do this, then who?”

Apep looked confused—and even the snakes over his shoulders stared at me as if I had lost my mind. “I don’t know, but I like you this way. Such a nice pony. Look at those socks—that’s very nice. I wonder what colors you’d throw—a horse like this would be brilliant.”

I tried not to read too much into his words.

“Can I ride you?”

I wasn’t sure what kind of bad joke that was, so I just stared. From the look on his eyes, however, I’d say he was completely serious.

Oh, bother.

\--------------------------

Markus snorted in dismay as December approached him. He drew back, his hooves digging into the soft mud—a result of last night’s frequent showers. The rain had not been heavy, but it had lasted, and as a result, wherever he stepped, his weight sunk him into the moist soil.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were such a cute little horsie now?” December clucked as she took another step towards Markus, tilting her head to the side curiously.

“It’s only been a day,” Markus admitted—he didn’t know why, but he did not like the hungry look December directed at him. Did she eat horse meat?

“Apep’s work?”

Markus hesitated, “No. We actually don’t know.”

She blinked at that. Her surprise was apparent in every feature of her face. Realizing her carelessness, however, she frowned, pursing her lips as if in thought.

“If not he, then who?”

Markus shrugged at that, taking another step away from December.

“Guess I’ll check the security footage, but I didn’t see anything,” she stopped then, fixed her eyes on Markus, and grinned, “except that some_one_ is a pretty little horse. Y’know, we had a lot of horses when I was a kid, but I haven’t been ‘round them much ever since.”

Markus stared, his tail flicking to swat at flies.

“Can I pet you?” she finally asked, making her eyes go wide, and clasping her hands together before her chest in a beg.

Reluctantly, I nodded. 

She wasted no time rushing to my side, running her hands eagerly through the reddish hairs that covered my horse butt. She crooned and then pressed her lips against my side. I had to resist the urge to trot off.

“Cutie,” she hummed, “I’ll pet you every day now.”

\--------------------------

Indra peered up at me with wide curious eyes—his hair floating around him in the water, gently wading with the tide.

“What happened to your legs?”

Of course those would be the first words out of his mouth.

I leaned towards him, my tail flicking at invisible flies as I neared the water’s edge. Without a question, Indra hastily rose towards the surface to meet me.

“I have four now.”

Indra frowned, and I could tell he didn’t think it adequate enough explanation, but he did not voice any protests.

“Can you get in the water?” he wanted to touch and cuddle—he always wanted to touch and cuddle.

I nodded, on my knees, crawling slowly closer to the edge. Indra darted to and fro, finally pausing just before me with a scowl.

“I’ll help keep your legs steady,” he offered, and I nodded.

Wriggling closer to the surface, I slipped a leg from under myself, gently sinking the hoof into the waters. Indra darted downwards then, presumably making sure I placed the hoof on firm ground. Once we made sure the hoof was firmly in place, he nodded, darting back upwards with a grin.

I repeated the same with the next one, feeling it sink into the soft mud. The other’s came harder, shifting myself farther into the water until my back legs hung over the edge. Indra urged me along, and as soon as all four legs were within the water, he darted towards me, placing a kiss just above the knee.

“I’ll take good care of you,” he said softly.


	24. Problem

“This is the new one.”

Skinny—all limbs and bones—a tangle of dark hair on his head falling in loose curls to his face, a crooked little smile hovering over his lips and a look of perpetually finding everything amusing that immediately struck me as annoying. He was lanky, and awkward—a kid, not old enough to even legally drive, I gathered. Just that. He wouldn’t last a week.

“Who’s this?” his words were slurred.

Drunk? Even less time. I’d give him two days.

Damien seemed to hesitate, and, to my surprise, seemed to speak slowly, carefully pronouncing each syllable: “This is Markus.”

The kid nodded, once, twice, then unsurprisingly said, “When’s my fix?”

I tried not to sigh.

“You need to see Izaac first,” Damien explained, using that same slow and careful tone he had used before. I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with the kid. Not that I hadn’t been thinking that since they told me a new one was coming. No one exactly came over here because they were experts on logical thinking and deduction.

The kid took it well enough. Frowned a little, but nodded, resigned.

Damien sighed, watched the kid for a few seconds, then oddly, turned towards me, making a point out of giving the kid his back. “Try to be nice. The kid has... problems.”

I blinked. Problems? Everyone has ‘em. But hey, good going, Damien, way to make the kid feel like dumb shit—I even felt half-embarrassed on Damien’s behalf. I almost wanted to apologize, and without realizing it, I was peeking around Damien to see the kid frowning again...

“He’s deaf.”

“Deaf?”

The kid was looking at me when I spoke—bleach blue eyes wide and curious. He flashed a toothy grin then, “Ye. Deaf as a fish. Still kinda rude t’be sneakin’ ‘round like that. I’m not blind, y’know.”

Damien may have turned a little pink then.

“Anyhow, just mind yer manners. No pickin’ fun at the ‘special ed’ kids and all that.”

I nodded, the kid grinned. Just like I anticipated: he seemed to find everything amusing.

“What name do I use?” it took me a moment to figure out that the question was directed at Damien.

“Seth. It _is_ your actual name.”

The kid—Seth—shrugged, “And so were the door girl’s tits. Just got ‘em changed.”

A sigh, “Then whatever you prefer.”

“I like Seth.”

Damien sighed again: this would be a long day.


	25. Spun Gold

I wasn’t sure what Apep was doing to me, but truth be told, I was a bit too afraid to protest.

So I gritted my teeth and bared it, wondering when my misery would end, if ever.

My head itched all over, and every now and then, hot water was poured over my head so that the whole of me was soon drenched. When I even through of protesting, Apep would simply pour more water over me, giggling as he did so. His fingers dug into my scalp so often, I felt as if my hair would fall out at a moment’s notice.

Just as I was getting used to the pain, Apep poured more water over my head, and stopped.

“Wait here a moment!” he sang, and I heard his footsteps receding.

Not that I had much choice—Apep had cuffed me to the chair.

When Apep returned, he held a mirror over my nose. Squinting, I struggled to plaster myself back on the shelf to peer into the mirror and—

My hair was blond.

My hair had been utterly bleached and dyed blond. What was _worse_ was that I had the sneaking suspicion the soft gold of my hair would be exactly the same shade as Izaac’s.

Well, I’ll be damned.

“But why?”

Apep giggled, “You’d make such a good Izzy if you had guts, Markus,” he sang.

Perfect explanation.


	26. Mimes

When Markus yawned, blinking up at the ceiling, struggling to recover his senses from his sleep, what he did not expect was his eyes to meet with wide open pupilless ones.

The pale eyes were joined to an equally off-putting face. Paper white skin, sickly-looking with pockets of acne on it—the mouth did not seem to have lips, and it was gaping wide showing nothing but a dark void within. Her black her floated around her face like a halo, and her body was position in such a way that reminded Markus of a mime trapped in a glass box. Her hands were set flat against some invisible surface, and the toes of her mangled foot were pushed back as if there were truly glass there.

“Avenge me,” she breathed, and her groan was terrible. It echoed across Markus’ skull like a thousand voices—and they were all moans of pain.

He writhed in his bed, trying to get away from the figure perpendicularly floating over him, but it was to no avail.

“Avenge me,” the woman demanded once more, her hair flowing around her as if buffeted by a gentle breeze.

“Ah, OK!” Markus finally breathed, trying to tear his eyes away from her sightless gaze.

“Avenge me!” she moaned once more as she drew back. It was almost as if she was being tugged back to the ceiling by invisible strings on her limbs. When she hit the ceiling, a cloud of dust and soot in the shape of a body appeared over him—the eyes and mouth gaping wide to reveal the color of the ceiling underneath.

And all Markus could think was—

_Goddammit, not again!_


	27. Bedbug

Night had fallen long hours before Markus found enough time to slip away from the usual hubbub, and climb those last tiresome steps towards his room. The hallways were dark—a candle illuminated a small circle around the walls every few feet, giving the place an eerie feel, making it feel like the darkness sucked everything in before that little burst of light appeared in the distance, throwing large shadows across the already darkened hallway. Why Izaac insisted on this type of decoration was beyond Markus—or maybe it was Ashlin? It did fit the demon’s style. Although, why Izaac would let Ashlin decorate his home was unknown to Markus.

Unconsciously, Markus found himself hurrying his steps once the thought of Ashlin fluttered into his mind. He was eager to rest—eager to feel the fabric of his bed beneath him, cushioning his muscles. Tiredness has long since seeped into his bones and turned his limbs heavy—he _deserved_ a good’s night rest. Thoughts of Ashlin would not haunt him tonight.

Once he stood before the door to his room, he hastily pushed it open, turning around once he was inside the room to make sure the door was shut. Once the lock slid into place, he sighed in relief. There would be no merrily grinning Ashlin for tonight.

His room was dark, unsurprisingly. He would have felt the wall for the light switch, but there was no need—he had nothing to look forward to, except a good night’s rest. So he undressed in the darkness, peeling off his shirt, shoes, socks, and lastly, his pants, discarding them on the floor where he would surely stumble upon them once morning came. He padded those last few steps towards the bed before he simply threw itself at it, waiting for the press of the mattress on him and—

“_Ow_.”

Markus winced, feeling something dig into his ribs, and tried to stumble back away from the bed—nearly falling in his haste. Something moved underneath the sheets before a head poked out of them—staring at him with sleep-riddled pale eyes.

“Don’t do that,” Seth grumbled when his eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting—catching the contours of Markus’ face in the darkness.

“What are you doing here...?”

Seth stared at him blankly, and Markus cursed silently in his head. It was too dark for Seth to make out the words on Markus’ lips—he would never be able to answer. 

_The bedside lamp_. If he turned that on, perhaps Seth would be able to see enough of his lips to understand what Markus was trying to say—

“_No_, stay here,” before Markus could move farther back, Seth’s arms were around him, yanking him towards the bed eagerly, hiding his face on Markus’ chest.

What could Seth be thinking? Markus had no real way of knowing—or asking, but if Seth thought he was about to leave his own room, he was sorely mistaken. Markus was about to protest, putting his hands on either of Seth’s shoulders to push him back—

“Sleep with me,” the word were soft, gentle, coaxing. Something about the tone of voice struck a chord within Markus, and without knowing why, Markus was wrapping his arms around the teenager, holding him gently and easing him towards the bed, half-closing his eyes and trying to calm him enough so they would both be able to sleep.


	28. Feathers

Midnight black feathers shook when he growled, playfully tilting his body so that his head hung upside down, eyes meeting mine. 

“Tease,” I gasped. 

He almost seemed to grin before retreating his head away from sight. His claws grasped at me as he aligned his eager member with my ass. A chittering noise, like a bird’s, and he pushed forward, his hips eager to meet mine.

I gasped again. He growled.

He flapped his wings, adjusting his position as he moved against me. The feathers on his legs and arms brushed against my sides, and his wings kicked up enough air for me to fear take off. Carefully, he adjusted my hips, pulling me back, moving my knees from place, making me scramble against the bed.

“Next time, bigger room. Bigger bed.”

He chittered in response, a high-pitched, pleased sound. His head appeared in my periphery, and he pushed his snout towards my cheek. I liked to think he agreed.


	29. Reptile

I couldn’t exactly say I liked the way Izaac stared at me, but I couldn’t exactly tell him off. I wasn’t sure how well he’d understand my words in that lizard brain of his, but I didn’t want to risk it. Izaac had a long memory, and a very vindictive personality.

So I ignored the disapproving iguana stare downs he spared me, and concentrated on fixing his tie. For a ferocious reptile, he was looking quite stylish.

“He looks _so_ handsome,” Apep purred at my side, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Snake in love with iguana. I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of that.

“He’s rather big.”

“He’s a big man,” Apep chirped. But, no, really—he was huge. If I stretched down next to him, the tip of his tail would brush my toes, and his mouth would line up perfectly to rip my throat out with his lizard-teeth. I wasn’t sure where exactly Apep wanted to take him, but it better have large spacious rooms and plenty of space—I somehow doubted Izaac would develop more patience as an iguana than a mafia boss.

“Tie looks good.”

To my relief, Apep nodded. “I’m sure Damien would be proud.

Well.

“But we should be leaving now.”

I twisted around to look at the clock—3 PM.

“Is it a party or something?”

“Yup, yup, only reptiles allowed, and I needed to bring Izaac with me.”

Of course.

I turned to look at Izaac, and he seemed to not care. Or it was just his usual iguana-face. It was hard to tell.

He moved towards Apep’s side—not even sparing me a glance. He nudged Apep’s hand with his big snout. Apep giggled like a schoolgirl and started stroking Izaac.

“So cuddly,” Apep hummed.

Not the words I would use, but OK.


	30. Beds

As soon as I saw Damien walking away from my room, I knew I shouldn’t expect to be able to just go back to sleep.

I wasn’t exactly very surprised when I opened the door to find my bed sheets flung to the ground. A figure rested atop the bed.

With a sigh, I approached the bed. As expected, Seth lay atop of it, completely naked, with his black hair tousled about him, cascading over the pillow. His eyes were closed, and his face turned away from me, but that did not matter. When I drew closer, I noticed what looked suspiciously like cum between his thighs and dribbling onto the bed.

I sighed once more.

Carefully, I grasped Seth’s shoulder to catch his attention, and with sleep-heavy eyes he looked up at me, blinking.

“Hey,” his voice was husky, and the sleepy smile he flashed me could have melted the hearts of perverts and children alike.

“Maybe we should sleep on your bed tonight,” it was not much of a suggestion, but rather a demand. I did not favor rolling around in sweat and cum, despite what most seemed to think.

He smiled at me, stretching his arms to wrap them over my shoulders, “H’okay.”


	31. Flying Chickens

No.

No, no, no, no.

No.

No.

_No_.

Why was it morning already?

I wanted to sleep, I wanted to drift away to the land were magazine bled and their blood tasted like glue. Not this place where the light filtered through the window and made it hard to concentrate.

I groaned, a hand blindly reached for a pillow, and when my fingers fell on the prize, I threw it over my head.

_There_. Now I was safely protected from this unholy morning light. Now if anyone asked me, _hey, Markus, why didn’t you wake up early?_ I could feign ignorance and simply say, sadly, a bit of disappointment leaking into my tone, that I had not been woken by the morning light. It was simply a figment of my imagination—it had never reached me.

But it had reached me! My brain wanted to scream. I considered flinging myself from the window, but found myself too lazy to move. Morning had come!

And with it, my doom.

Now I could only cringe in horror under my bed sheets and flinch at every little sound. Because they would come for me, surely, they would. I could only wait; holding my breath, squeezing my eyes shut that, by a happy twist of fate—some god smiling down upon me—that they would forget.

Then, _then_, I would be free. Free to nail boards over my windows and live the life of a vampire. Sleeping the whole day, every day.

I don’t know how much time I spent, smuggled away under my bed covers, but eventually, I drifted to sleep again. I woke up only when I heard the dreaded knocking at my door—

_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

_As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._

—I huddled deeper under my covers, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to meld into the fabric of the bed. Maybe we could become one. Maybe, if I wished it earnestly enough, I’d become Markus the Bed Fairy.

“Mar-_kus!_”

Shit.

_‘’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door –_

_Only this, and nothing more.’_

“Markus!” the voice squealed again.

Mommy, no, I don’t want to—mommy, please, don’t make me.

“What?”

“C’mon—you promised you’d take me to the zoo.”

I wanted to point out that I made no such promises. Izaac had simply given me instructions that I was to take him—couldn’t even decline. When I faked a cough, he only asked me if I wanted to get my throat operated. I had given him the standard, thank you, but no, and ran the hell out of there before he decided I _did_ need surgery of some kind or the other.

“Coming,” I mumbled back, still not moving from the bed.

“Sweetest kitten,” came a dreadfully familiar voice, “I’d try to hurry if I were you, else Damien will have to go ahead without us.”

I shivered in bed; I think I may have nearly pissed myself a little.

_No, no, no, no_.

Quoth the danged flying chicken—

“Nevermore!” I moaned miserably into my pillow, but it only seemed to cackle evilly at me.

I should write my last will and testament—

Or pump deadly gas into my body, so when I died it’d take all of these psychos with me.

But, instead, I did neither, only stood from bed and trudged towards an early grave.

“Why,” I asked the skies, the heavens, any gods that might be listening to me now—even the atoms that formed the air around me would do.

“Why,” I repeated to those testy molecules. They vibrated dully, spinning in worthless little atom-movements. I wasn’t very good at chemistry. Most sad of all was the fact that I hadn’t realized until that precise moment.

Maybe my pinched-face chemistry teacher had been right. Maybe I _did_ need chemistry to carry me through life, and at this precise moment it somehow could have helped me.

I somehow doubted it though.

“How are you hanging, ‘Kussy?”

I ignored the nickname. “Can I stop it?”

Apep being Apep, only grinned in response.

That was a no then.

Beneath me, my unwilling and very annoyed ride snorted. It threw its head this way and that, its jaws parting, flashing sharp incisors the length of a middle finger. I was almost tempted to show off mine own middle finger, but I was afraid the monster would decide I was offering it a snack.

Though, maybe monster wasn’t a fair description. It was a reptile—lean and agile, all corded powerful muscles and an impenetrable gaze. Its eyes were piss yellow, its claws sharp and curved. The scales—or the part of the scales I could see, were a mirage of beiges and browns. The rest of it was covered in rough little feathers that clung to its spine and limbs like a sad, sad chicken. One look at it and the word “velociraptor” had slipped from my lips. This, in turn, had made Izaac frown in obvious indignation and shame for my never ending and vast ignorance. He had corrected me—named the creature something else. Dromedomasaurus? Domesaurus? Sexysaurus? I honestly had no clue. It was not a velociraptor, however, and that was all that mattered.

My years preparing for this—watching _Jurassic Park_, and it was all for naught. I might as well forfeit on life because the one thing I held to be true was thrown back in my face with a careless shrug.

That, or I was afraid the ancient creature come to life would tear my throat out with those sharp, sharp teeth of its.

It tossed its head then, and it was all I could do to hold on to the bridle. I dug my legs to its side, leaning forward, practically stretched out on the thing’s back, because I was reluctant to have my legs pinched between the hooked claw of its back legs, and the knife-like talons of its front legs. Why did I do wrong in life to get strapped on to the deadly carnivore?

“This is no place to nap,” Damien rumbled from somewhere behind me. Easy to say—he was riding the—what was it?—Styrasexysaurus? Sexysaurus II? Point being—it didn’t eat meat.

“I’m going to die anyway, might as well,” I told my dinosaur’s back. It seemed to rumble in agreement.

Not only did I get the deadly one. I got the asshole one.

“How are you going to race if you sleep, Kusskuss?” a horridly cheerful voice squeaked by my side.

Race...?

I groaned into my dinosaur’s back. I must have done something to upset it, because it turned its head to look at me and growled.

This child was going to be the death of me.


	32. Whispers

Night always had a way of appearing to be suffocating around this place. The hallways, dark as they were, seemed to stretch forever, the long shadows making me think of old haunted mansions and spooks. Normally, I would have shrugged off the thought as childish, but now? I wasn’t so sure. Some_thing_ could be lurking around the corner, and chances were, it would not be pleasant.

“I just...”

The words were distant, an echo, nothing more. Immediately I stopped in my tracks, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. Outside the wind howled against the windows, and the tops of the trees brushed against the glass. A candle flickered, but persisted. Nothing else moved.

Trying to creep as silently as I could, I continued walking. I would go straight to my room and lock myself inside. That had been the plan from the start, but repeating the thought to myself served to bring comfort.

“Honestly—you don’t have any reason to be this insecure. I _know_ him.”

“But why would he wait?”

I froze again in my steps—just realizing the voices were coming from the turn just ahead. I stopped, flattened myself against a wall, eyes wide. Indecision crowded my thoughts. I tried to quiet my madly beating hurt.

“He’ll wait as long as he has to.”

“But he shouldn’t _have_ to.”

_Cain._ I recognized that voice—quick to become a growl. Bitter angry Cain. The other—a deep baritone, must be Damien’s. I was safe then, nothing to worry about. But curiosity overwhelmed me now, leaving me glued to the wall—what could those two be talking about?

“You need time—he understands.”

“It’s not fair to him, though. Just because I’m being a little selfish—”

“No—don’t. What you’ve gone through isn’t just something that would be shrugged off. He’ll wait—he knows you just need time.”

“He deserves _better.”_

“He wants you.”

A snort, shortly followed by a soft sigh.

“Ashlin knows a lot about waiting, Cain. He’ll be as patient as you need him to—the least he would want was for you to feel like you owed him anything. Take this at your own time, and don’t worry about him. He’s not the type to get impatient. He knows waiting usually has its own merits. It’s almost his job, you might say. He has learned how to sit down and wait.”

A pause, I could almost see Cain chewing that thought over, trying to come up with a reply. “You’re really lame, you know that, Damien?”

A chuckle, “I wasn’t the one who was practically crying a minute ago.”

“Oh, shut up.”

A pause, the echo of footsteps. “You’ll stop worrying now?”

“I’ll try.”

\--------------------------

His smile was small, shy, bright blue eyes bouncing away and flicking back shyly. After a breath, he sighed, turning his gaze towards his sneakers and leaving it there, holding his breath in suspense.

“It’ll be alright,” Ashlin mumbled, pulling Cain closer, pressing his lips against the base of his throat.

“I wish I could be so sure.”

Again, with the gentle pulls, Ashlin smiled against the sensitive flesh of Cain’s throat, humming low in his throat, wrapping his arms tighter around Cain, until the younger man sighed again. He pressed another kiss against Cain’s throat. “Izaac most likely already _knows_, he won’t have a problem with it.”

“But...”

“Nothing,” he hummed, “knowing Izaac he’ll arch a brow, slightly offended because we though there was something he _didn’t_ know, throw some condescending remark, and we’ll be off.”

Cain, however, didn’t look so sure. He bit his lip, his hands tightened to fist, turning his face away from Ashlin so that he could not read Cain’s expression.

“It’s _Izaac_—he’ll be fine with us.”

“Everyone thinks—”

“_Cain_, really, it doesn’t _matter_. Izaac will be fine with it, and I’ll look forward to being with you for the rest of the week.”

“_If_ I don’t get chased out with a pitchfork.”

“You won’t.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“Izaac is too classy for a pitchfork.”

“_Ashlin_.”

A throaty chuckle, and a kiss was pressed against the line of Cain’s jaw. He shifted his hold on Cain so that he could lean towards his chest, pinning him there, and soothing him with little hums. “It’ll be fine, trust me, OK?”


	33. Dicks or Eggs

He was sleeping, laying back with his raven-black hair draped over a perfectly white pillow. All the bed clothes were white as well, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was wearing perfectly white hospital clothes underneath that too. There was an IV going into his left hand, and I noticed little cables criss–crossing around the room, hooked up to all sorts of machines. Usually, I would be worried, but I had met Damien earlier on my way down here, and he had warned me about this. Apparently, Izaac simply wanted to keep track of his brain activity, though, if he had bothered to ask me, I’d have informed him that there’d be none.

All joking aside, he did look well. He wasn’t pale and his breathing was slow and steady. A part of me wanted to wake him, but I knew I should wait. With that thought, I moved towards the little armchair shoved into a corner of the room, dragging it closer to his bed before making it my seat.

I had already come down here—to the mansion’s hospital wards—on more than one occasion. Very few of those visits had been pleasant, and I was reluctant to step inside those bleached-white hallways again, but this was my friend here. I was not only very reluctant to leave him by himself, but also, very wary. Izaac would be careless just to see what would happen, whereas Damien was simply too busy to watch over him. I did not trust a single one of the nurses, and the other only person that wandered this halls was Apep (which could be good at times, but mostly not—I did not like leaving things up to chance with that one), and Ashlin (which would be a _hell_ no). Ashlin never really seemed to care much for Seth, but asking him a favor was simply out of the question.

Not to mention, getting close enough to him to actually _ask_ for a favor—even if it was shouted across a volleyball court—was dangerous.

And, I guess, above all, Seth seemed to rather like it when I visited him. He visibly brightened up, and although, under normal circumstances, he wasn’t really chatty, he was good enough company for me.

So, I sat and waited. I flipped through a magazine I found in a corner of the room, but I did not really understand much of the content. It seemed to go deep into medical terminology, and half of the terms went right over my head. As a result, I mostly stared at the pretty pictures and struggled to understand what they meant.

A nurse came in once, one I did not recognize. She did not speak to me, simply fiddled with the instruments, nodded to herself, peeked at Seth, and left. I decided it wasn’t important.

When Seth finally had woken up, at least an hour and a half had passed—I had been briefly debating if I should go up into the kitchens to eat and return later. 

“Mukas?” his voice slurred, fogged with sleep and drugs.

“Yeah,” though, my answer hardly mattered. He was squinting at me in a way that suggested that he wasn’t able to identify the crucial elements of a human face, let alone read my lips and respond to me.

Once he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he tried once more, his voice still heavily slurred, making it hard to understand in places, but one had to appreciate his efforts, at least. “Ho’ lon’ have ye been ‘ere?”

I was a bit offended he’d call me a ho, but I decided to ignore it. “A little over an hour.”

He nodded, rubbed at his eyes once more and yawned. “I thunk he dug in’ my guts.”

He, being Izaac—I didn’t know if that was a norm, but Izaac was leading all of Seth’s operations. I think Damien suggested once that there was actually more than one doctor, but if that was the case, they kept far away from me.

“Do you feel the stitches?”

He squinted at me, in a way that showed he couldn’t comprehend, so I repeated my question.

“Oh,” he said, and lifted a hand to point at a spot just below his ribs. “Ya t’ink he took my tumtum?”

That was highly unlikely, considering Izaac wanted Seth to live, but I had to smile at his words. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Maybe ‘e snipped me.”

“Damien would weep.”

He grinned at that, “Nah, I’m sure eunuchs are ‘is ting.”

“Then I guess I better run.”

He giggled stupidly at that, and I concluded that the drugs Izaac had given him were a touch too strong. Maybe he had been afraid of going too little with them because of Seth’s history with them? “How do you feel?”

He grimaced, “M’ass is a pan’ake. M’back feels lik’ Dam’o-boy sat on it fer a week. But, it dun hurt. Jest stiff is all.”

“Y’know what else is stiff...”

He burst into giggles then, stopping abruptly when the movement jostled his stitches. Eyes wide. “Ye, ye. Wiss I could righ’ now.”

“Want me to get someone to bring you something to eat?” at least then, I could get something to eat as well.

“Serr,” he looked at me, seeming to consider it, “ya tink they do requests?”

I shrugged, “It’s Izaac.”

“Sem dick would be nice,” he hiccupped, and giggled, again, forcing to stop abruptly when pain lanced up his side, “Or eggs.”

I shook my head, smiling, “Sit tight then, get some rest if you can.”

“Make me!” he growled, closing his eyes despite his words.

“Yeah, yeah, you wish,” I told him, fully aware of the fact that he clearly could not see. 

I stood up from the chair, dropping the magazine back on it, and making my way towards the door, gathering my thoughts. Dick or eggs—what? For Seth, and I supposed I’d have whatever the chef had cooked up. I just hoped they wouldn’t have a problem with bringing it down here.


	34. Hearing Aid

“What’s that…?”

A hesitation. Damien eyes briefly bounced to his feet—the walls around them, thinking carefully. Seth noticed, because his expression changed—from half-horror half-surprise, to something calmer. Patiently waiting for Damien to gather his thoughts.

“A poodle.”

“I can see that...”

_You certainly can’t hear it now, can you?_

“It’s a trained hearing dog.”

Seth’s eyebrows knotted in a frown. He looked down at the dog—black coat, shaved close-cropped. Damien didn’t know if he saw surprise there or just simply, horror. When he spoke it was slowly, cautiously, pronouncing each syllable carefully.

“And what the fuck does a hearing dog exactly do?”

“It hears for you,” Damien said matter-of-factly.

“Right.”

“It’s for you.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Too bad,” the bright orange leash was thrust into Seth’s hands. The teen glared, but took it nonetheless, setting his jaw, ready to stomp-out because of a dog, of all things, “got it for you—Izaac wants you to have it. Get to know it.”

Seth didn’t reply—instead continued glaring. Damien had no way of knowing if he understood, so in the end, he just shrugged. Sparing a comforting word, before he was forced to awkwardly, walk away—feeling Seth’s eyes glare two holes onto his back.


	35. Rooms

“You were in Damien’s _room_?”

Seth and Markus rested, as they often did, in Markus’ bed. Rarely were words needed to carry on peacefully, but on the off-chance that they desired a conversation, they would sit Indian-style on the bed, with the lamp turned on, facing each other so Seth could read Markus’ lips. Markus had already picked up on some sign language, but Seth had insisted so much that he did not mind reading Markus’ lips, that, in the end, Markus spoke out loud.

“Why so susprised?”

Markus blinked at his friend, feeling almost betrayed.

“No one knows where Damien’s room is—Izaac and Ashlin at best. Most likely Apep, but I’m pretty sure that’s it.”

Seth’s brows knit together in a frown, “Y’sure? It wasn hard to find.”

“I’m sure.”

Markus wasn’t sure if to feel awed or still feel betrayed.

“How did you do it?”

“Oh, man. I dunno. I just follow ‘is scent. He’s huge y’know—kin hard ta miss.”

That he was. And in more ways that one.

“I’ve never found it...”

“Dun he got the hots fer you? Why dun ya ask?”

Easy for Seth to say—he had been inside the mythical room. For a time, Markus was quite sure Damien didn’t even _have_ a room. That one didn’t sleep, merely placidly rested filling up papers in some mysterious office. The fact that Seth had found his bedroom, sneaked in before Damien could notice, and wait calmly in Damien’s bed until Damien returned for his rest was a foreign concept to Markus. He would have been less surprised if Seth said he thought Damien was small.

And he wasn’t.

“I don’t know. Not exactly Markus the daredevil here.”

Seth shrugged, “I can take ya.”

The offer was tempting but...

“Nah. Just, forget about it. If he wanted me in his room he’d have fucked me there already.”

“I snuck in though,” Seth leaned forward, and when Markus lifted his gaze, it was only to see a crooked grin.

“You’re cuter.”

Seth snorted, drawing away from Markus, shoulders trembling. It took half a second for Markus to identify it as laughter.

\--------------------------

It took me no time to realize they were both so blown sky high they were practically floating.

It took me a little longer to realize they had been that way for a while with no plans on landing.

As soon as I came into sight they dragged me into their arms, giggling and mumbling senseless phrases as they pressed their faces to my side and chest, sighing contentedly when I finally stopped protesting and relaxed within their grasp. Seth was direct and shameless—he grasped my hips and threw a leg over mine own to pin himself closer, head resting on my chest. Danny was more reserved but no less high because of it. And not even that much. Whatever they took this time made them immensely cuddly.

“You look funny,” Seth giggled to my side, eyes closed in bliss, inhaling deeply.

“_Nah_. Mikey looks Mikeyish.”

Seth wrinkled his nose, pushing himself up to peer over my chest at Daniel so he could catch his words better.

“An’ here I thought photogruffers ‘ere all poetic.”

“An’ here I thought whores hoarded.”

Seth frowned, I shook my head.

“Markus hoards me,” Seth finally slurred, and that made Daniel flash a grin in response.

“Mikey the whore hoarder,” he sang back, pressing his face against my side.

I shook my head and tried not to encourage them by smiling.


	36. Fluid

It was a hurried kiss, he panted into my mouth, tasted it with his tongue, pulled away to leave a trail of blue goo clinging from our lips. In one smooth motion, he wrapped his arms around me, hitched a leg to my waist.

“Eager,” I hummed against his shoulder.

He responded by wrapping his fingers against the hem of my shirt and giving sharp little tugs.

I shifted myself, my hands slipping on the buttons of my jeans, coated in thick goo as they were.

He moaned against my ear once I thrust inside. His fingers tugged all the more eagerly at my shirt—my hair. His back arched. I grinned.

“This _so_ was worth the wait,” he practically sung.

His arms wrapped around my shoulders, fingers brushing against the back of my neck. I could feel his chin pressing against my shoulder with every little jerk, his arms tightening, his fast breathing echoing in my ear.

My own arms were lightly wrapped around his back, fingers coming away sticky, coated in blue, whenever they brushed against him. He sat on my lap, straddling me, legs pressing against my waist, knees leaning against my chair. With little grunts he pushed himself upwards, his hips giving a twist that made me groan.

“Is that better?” I could hear the grin in his voice as he lifted himself again, grinding, gasping.

I groaned in response, “It always feels better.”

His hips rolled, and I leaned against his shoulder, the sound muffled.

“Good.”

His skin tasted sweet—the substance leaking into my tongue, reminding me oddly of jam. Underneath my touch, he writhed, his fingers tangling around hairs, arms grasping at my shoulders. He eagerly moved against me, giving surprised little gasps with every thrust.

His fingers trailed along my back, leaving it wet and sticky. I could feel the fluids dripping from my hair to fall against the desk.

He moaned—“Don’t stop.”

I grinned, flashing teeth, my hands grasping at his eager hips.

“Not for the world,” I said, voice husky, low.

“G-goo—_oh_,” the word melted into a moan as I moved against him.


End file.
